Separate Boxes
by Pauline Dorchester
Summary: November 1942: The landscape changes. A mystery deepens. (Follows "Fires Within Fires" and "The Post.")
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Sam Stewart, Foyles _père et fils,_ Paul Milner, Ian Brooke, John Kieffer, the Rev. Iain Stewart, Joe Farnetti, and a couple of other characters whom I can't name here without ruining the surprise are the creations of Anthony Horowitz. (Sam's mother, a character referred to in the _Foyle's War_ canon but never seen or even named, is a borderline case.) No profit is sought by my use of them here.  
 **Caveat:** If you haven't read my stories _Fires Within Fires_ and _The Post,_ certain things in this one won't make sense.

* * *

He likes to keep everything in separate boxes.

– Andrew Foyle, discussing his father in _The Funk Hole._

* * *

NOVEMBER 1942

The film is a corker: exciting, suspenseful and witty. At one point Andrew feels Sam stiffen – they have been leaning together, his arm along the back of her seat – and she searches for his free hand with one of hers and turns her head slightly towards him, although her eyes don't leave the screen. She exhales in an alarmed way: 'Hoh!' His lips brush against her cheekbone as he turns his head, which makes her shiver.

'They're Bomber Command,' he whispers into her ear. 'I'm – I was in Coastal Command, when I was flying. Completely different thing. This would _never_ happen to me.'

Sam pulls away just far enough to give him a long glance. Then she once again leans on him gently.

* * *

'It still feels very _odd_ to see a film on a Sunday,' Sam muses as they leave the cinema.

'It was a packed house! All those factory workers have no other time now for _any_ sort of recreation,' Andrew notes. 'But really, Sam, why _oughtn't_ people to go to the pictures on a Sunday? Pubs have open hours on Sundays, after all – surely _that's_ no worse. And by this time of day you've already been to church.'

'Some people would say that it's no _better_ that pubs are open on Sundays. And one is meant to go to Evensong as well as to Matins, and might not be in the right frame of mind after the pictures.'

'Well... true enough, I suppose. Mightn't that depend on what picture you saw, though? I thought _this_ film was fairly edifying, didn't you? A good yarn about teamwork and courage in the war effort. You _did_ enjoy it, didn't you, Sam?'

'Oh, I thought it was _marvelous!_ I especially liked the actor.'

'Which one, Sam?'

'The character in the film who was an actor, I mean. He was _very_ handsome, I thought,' Sam explains, adding, 'He _quite_ reminded me of you.'

'Oh, well, _that's_ alright, then. I'd been wanting to see this for quite some time, you know. I'm surprised that you _hadn't_ before now, really.'

'I was invited to go,' Sam admits after a tiny hesitation. 'They were showing it in St Leonards on Sea in July. But I begged off. The title was a bit... off-putting.'

'You didn't want to see a picture called _One of Our Aircraft is Missing_?'

'No. Not last summer, at any rate,' she remarks.

'Hmm.' Andrew is silent for a moment – _That's rather nice to know,_ he considers saying.

There are too many people about for him to even think of kissing her. They walk past the darkened windows of a restaurant, closed for Sunday but displaying a banner that reads **Book Early for Christmas**.

'Oh, Sam, I've been meaning to tell you,' he says, sounding chagrined. 'I'm sorry about this – really, _really_ sorry. The thing is, I don't expect to have much leave between Christmas and New Year's. Probably just the days themselves, and perhaps I'll get to knock off a bit early on New Year's Eve.'

' _Oh._ Well, it can't be helped, I suppose. Still, that's _awfully_ disappointing.'

'We're behind schedule,' Andrew explains.

'What do you mean?'

'We had forty trainees in the last course, as usual, and only nine of them qualified as pilots. That's... inadequate, and a _very_ bad showing for No. 605 Squadron. It's partly the fault of the instructors – it was our first course in Hastings, and we probably took too long to adjust to the new setting. But it's also the airbase itself, I'm afraid. It simply isn't large enough for all the activity that it's having to support now.'

'Is it too crowded?'

'Yes, exactly. There were already four squadrons when we got here in September – that's one more than was I was flying – and now us as well. All of the trainees need to spend a certain amount of time on the ground with training equipment. We had more space for that in Debden than we have here.'

'Those machines that let you pretend that you're taking off and landing – is that what you mean?'

'Yes, those,' Andrew answers her, pleased that Sam has remembered this. 'Between that and having to schedule practise flights around everything else that goes on at the base the pupils aren't getting enough... rehearsal time, for lack of a better way of putting it, and as a result some quite capable chaps didn't make the grade through no real fault of their own. I could have predicted this – in fact I seem to recall _trying_ to warn about it when we were told that we were moving here, although I think that at the time I was simply frightened of coming back and facing you.'

'Hush,' Sam says gently, and then asks, 'Does your commanding officer know about all of this?'

'If you mean Wingco, I'm not sure that there's anything that he can do about it, really. Not that I've brought it up. Not my place. Palgrave _has_ – brave man, it must be said. I have the impression,' Andrew goes on, sounding amused now, 'that Wing Commander Turner finds my Squadron Leader a bit... _trying._ At any rate, as far as leave is concerned it's a question of giving the trainees enough time to prepare. The more days of instruction we miss, the less time they have to do that. I'll be due for some regular leave in February, though – we could think about going to Lyminster then, if you like.'

'My parents haven't actually _said_ anything about that,' Sam notes. 'I'm rather nervous about it, I've got to admit. Not on _your_ behalf, of course – for myself.'

Sam hasn't been sure whether to be relieved that her parents haven't reacted to the news that she has a beau with shock or disapproval, or to be worried that their lack of reprimand doesn't seem to have grown into an interest in actually meeting Andrew.

'Are you enjoying being an instructor more than you did before?' she asks.

'I spoke in there as though I were still flying, didn't I?' he responds after a few seconds' hesitation.

'You started to, and then you corrected yourself,' Sam points out. 'But _are_ you, Andrew?'

'It's true that I still feel rather... sidelined, I suppose, at times. But yes, I do like it better now – _vastly._ There's _nothing_ that couldn't be better here than it was at Debden, Sam. You're here, Dad's here, it doesn't drizzle constantly, my commanding officer isn't a petty tyrant with a streak of madness to him. There are things here to do and see and think about and talk about. There's the seashore – or at least there's the promenade. _You're_ here – did I say that before? And I've started to wonder if I'm not a _bit_ better at the job than I used to think that I was,' Andrew admits.

' _That's_ good – I'm glad to hear it.'

Together they round a corner into the Parade. At once the western sky is spread before them. There is still just a bit of daylight.

'Look, Sam, you can see the evening star!' Andrew exclaims.

'It's beautiful,' says Sam.

'Tonight's the new moon,' he tells her. 'A wonderful night for stargazing, with the blackout – if Jerry doesn't show up, of course – but rather _dark,_ you know, for walking about.'

It's even busier here than it was in Havelock Road. _No privacy,_ Andrew thinks. He clears his throat softly.

'Could you do me a small favour, please, Sam?'

'Of course! What is it?'

'Could you pretend to stumble, or lose your footing, or something of that sort? It says in the King's Regs or somewhere that an airman isn't to offer his arm to a lady unless she needs assistance.'

'Oh. Does it _really?_ That _is_ odd! Well, all right. Oh, dear,' Sam announces – a bit more loudly than necessary, perhaps – 'I believe that I'm about to lose the heel off of my left shoe.'

'Allow me,' Andrew says at once, and they link arms and laugh.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER

When Sam pulls up the Wolseley in front of the police station she and Mr Foyle see a military vehicle parked in the drive: an American jeep with the controls on the wrong side. Neither of them comments on this; Sam feels a faint anxious flicker.

'Good morning, sir – the commanding officer of the American forces in greater Hastings is waiting in your office,' Sgt Brooke announces as Foyle walks into the waiting area.

'Is he really?' Mr Foyle asks with interest. 'Thank you.'

* * *

Sam, having seen to the car, enters the station by the rear door and begins making her way toward the front.

'Good morning, Sam.'

'Good morning, Milner. Is... someone from the American base here? I saw one of their vehicles in front.'

'Yes, Captain Kieffer has been waiting for Mr Foyle.'

'Oh, I see! Anyone else?'

'No, Sam, I think he got here on his own this time,' Milner says kindly.

Sam can feel herself blushing, to her dismay.

'Well, it's good to know that he's learned to drive on the proper side of the road,' she comments.

 _I'm being ridiculous_ , Sam tells herself as she enters the waiting area and greets Brookie. _I explained everything to Joe when I wrote to him._

Then again, she hasn't actually seen or heard from him since then.

She casts a careful glance around the waiting area, sees that it is empty, and seats herself on the bench.

* * *

'Well, well! Good morning, John. To what do I owe the pleasure?'

'Morning, Christopher! Good to see you!'

'Likewise, I'm sure. There's no _trouble,_ I hope?'

'Oh – no, no! Not right now. Nothing that _I_ know about, anyway. But I've got some news to share, and it's the kind of thing that it's best to announce face-to-face – and in private,' Kieffer adds.

'What is it, then?' Foyle asks as he settles into his chair.

'Just that the 215th Engineering Company has finished the job, and we'll be clearing out the day after the U.S.A.A.F. gets here – by Friday at the latest is what I've been told, and maybe even tomorrow. The thing is, I may not be seeing you again, so I'm here to say so long, for one thing.'

'I see. Well, I _really_ am very sorry to hear that, John,' Foyle says, having decided that _so long_ must mean _goodbye._

'Likewise. It's been an honor, Christopher, it really has.'

'D'you know where you're being sent?'

'Not as of this morning – not that I'd be able to tell you if I did.'

'No, of course not.'

'Anyway, there are a couple of things related to that that I need to tell you about. Y'know, just a few words to the wise.'

'Yes?'

'First of all, our orders were to build an airbase for a company three times the size of ours – and we've done that.'

'So, um, accommodations for about seventy-five men.'

'That's right. We're using it now for our own quarters. But what I'm hearing _now_ is,' Kieffer goes on, 'the company that's coming in is actually around ninety-five or a hundred guys.'

'Meaning that some of them will have to be billeted.'

'Exactly. In Hylton, or maybe here in Hastings. Now, what I've heard about our servicemen being put up privately over here has been really good, for the most part. But there've been exceptions – I think it's just misunderstandings mostly, but apparently, there've been a handful of, oh, _incidents._ And there are still folks locally who don't like us being here. So, I just thought you should know in advance what'll be happening.'

'Yes, thank you – taken under advisement. What else ought I to know?' Foyle asks.

'Well, here's where things get a little complicated. A.P.O. 887 – the people I report to in London – sent some brass down here last week to inspect our work.'

'I hope that they liked what they saw.'

'Yeah, they did!' Kieffer exclaims, sounding as though this was something that he had never taken for granted. 'They liked it _so_ much that they want us to leave via the center of Hastings so as many people as possible can wave us goodbye. Here's the route.'

Kieffer hands Foyle a sheet of paper on which a rough map of Hastings has been sketched, with arrows indicating where the parade will run.

'This probably won't be _too_ disruptive,' Foyle begins.

'And,' Kieffer goes on, 'they're contacting City Hall and the outposts of every last uniformed service around here and asking them to send representatives to the reviewing stand. The press, too. If _you_ haven't heard from them yet -'

'Can't say that I have.'

'- you will soon.'

'Well – yes, certainly. We'll need to place some constables along the route. Just to divert any other traffic, of course. Doesn't sound as though we should expect any trouble. Um, the only _problem_ I can see is that you _don't_ actually know when you're _leaving.'_

"We'll pull out of quarters at oh nine hundred on the day after the new company arrives. But Christopher, it isn't just, uh, constables. They want _you_ to be there, too."

'Me!? _Why?'_

'I had to submit a report after that – that trouble in April. My superiors were extremely impressed with the way you handled things. They're giving you a _compliment,_ Christopher!' Kieffer goes on, seeing that his friend's face has taken on a sour look. 'It won't be a big deal – there are barely two dozen of us! We'll be gone before you know it!'

'Well. Just let me know as _far_ in advance as you can, _would_ you please?' says Foyle in a resigned tone of voice.

'I'll try to give you a call before we start out. I know it's a pain,' Kieffer adds apologetically. 'I'd better get going pretty soon. How've you been holding up, though?'

'Oh – can't complain, really.'

'How's your son?'

'Quite well, thanks for asking. He's been back in Hastings since the end of August, and he's still in Training Command. All of that's very much to my liking, and what with, um, one thing and another I don't think that he's _too_ unhappy about it – although I also think part of him would prefer to be flying.'

'Yeah. Guess I can't really blame either one of you.'

* * *

Sam stands as soon as she hears footfalls in the passage, and comes to attention when she sees who is approaching the waiting area.

'Do you remember Miss Stewart, my driver?' Foyle asks.

'I think so. That's right,' Captain Kieffer says to Sam. 'You brought your boss to our old billet for that talk I asked him to give. And then,' he goes on, wincing visibly, 'one of my guys asked a question about "broads" – which is a _really_ rude thing to call a lady – "in uniform." _Right_ in front of you. I should've apologized then and there. I'll do it now.'

'No need to, sir,' Sam replies, although in fact this shakes her a bit: it had been Joe who'd made that remark. 'I was wondering, though, sir, on that subject,' she goes on. 'I read in the newspaper a couple of months ago that there are going to be... women's auxiliaries, _we_ call them, in the American forces.'

'Oh, yeah, that got started during the summer. Army and Navy, both,' Captain Kieffer replies, adding with a smile, 'Folks will just have to get used to it, I guess. We've already got nurses in the military, after all, and _they_ wear uniforms, too.'

'And are _all_ of the American servicewomen volunteers, as the paper said?'

'That's right! My sister-in-law signed up. My wife wrote me that there's been a lot of _talk_ about drafting women – she was kinda shocked by that, I think – but _I_ don't think it'll happen.'

'Will they be serving overseas, sir?'

'Oh, they're over here already, Miss Stewart! Nurses, at least. They'll probably start moving south, too, once there are more of them – sooner rather than later, I would guess. Unless the war ends within the next few months, which it won't.'

'No, sir, I _don't_ imagine that it _will._ Thank you very much, sir.'

'You're welcome! Now I'd really better get going, though.'

'Now then,' Foyle tells Sam and Brooke when Kieffer has gone. 'At some point later this week, Sergeant, probably on _very_ short notice, we're going to need to have, I would say, six constables in place along Castle Street and the Marine Parade, and Sam, I'll need you to drive me there.'

* * *

'Someone telephoned for you while you and the detectives were gone, Miss Stewart. A lady,' Brooke announces. 'Said she'd try again later – wouldn't leave so much as 'er name.'

'Well, _that's_ awfully mysterious. I'll just have to wait, I suppose.'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Tuesday 10 November 1942 _  
3.00pm – Have just come back from driving Mr F and Milner to answer report of break-in at house at 14 Plynlimmon Road. Stayed with car. Apparently nothing taken, but heard Mr F and M speak about desk being ransacked. Thought address seemed familiar_ _– number and street, not place itself. On way back occurred to me that_ _might_ _be false address Miss J. Beaux gave to PC Peters when she was found injured in September._

The telephone begins to ring. Sam looks up from her diary.

'Yes, madam, she 'as indeed returned. Just one moment, please. For you, Miss Stewart,' Brooke says, handing her the receiver.

'Sam Stewart here.'

' _Ah!_ Samantha, at last!'

* * *

 **Author's notes:  
** Heartfelt thanks to the invaluable and marvelous Bella Duveen79, bloghey131313, daisy321, jomiddlemarch, oldshrewsburian, OxfordKivrin, and rosalindfan for their help with nomenclature, chapter structure, and many other matters.

 _One of Our Aircraft is Missing_ (the title actually appears on the screen as _'. . . one of our aircraft is missing',_ complete with quotation marks) was the fourth collaboration between Michael Powell and Emerich Pressburger, and the first film that they jointly wrote, produced, and directed as "The Archers." According to the Internet Movie Database, it received its premiere in London on April 24th, 1942, and went into wider release two months later. I am speculating in this story that wartime conditions would have limited the number of prints that could be struck – and, by extension, the number of venues at which it could have been screened during any given week, so that exhibitors would still have considered it a draw several months later. It is indeed a corker, and can be viewed in its entirety on YouTube. (Beware of shortened versions.)

As far as I have been able to determine, canon never states definitively whether Andrew is assigned to Fighter Command or Coastal Command between "Eagle Day" and his transfer to Debden and reassignment to Training Command at the end of "Enemy Fire"; both commands used Spitfire fighter planes. However, in both "Among the Few" and "Enemy Fire," we are told that he is serving as a reconnaissance pilot – in the latter, a photo reconnaissance pilot. This seems to have been primarily, or even solely, Coastal Command's responsibility, so I have assigned Andrew there. More than 5,800 Coastal Command personnel were killed in action during World War II, so his father still has plenty to worry about.

The European Theater of Operations (E.T.O.), United States Army headquarters in London, was commonly referred to by its mailing (postal) address, A.P.O. 887.

Of the seven women's branches of the U.S. Armed Forces that existed during World War II, three sent personnel into the E.T.O., beginning with the arrival in Liverpool of Army Nurse Corps personnel on July 12th, 1942. They were followed by the Women's Army Corps on July 13th, 1943, and, at some point, the Navy Nurse Corps. I have been unable to determine the exact number of American servicewomen stationed in the E.T.O., but it appears to have been in the range of 40,000, the vast majority of whom were nurses.


	2. Chapter 2

For an instant Sam is afraid that she will drop the handset, so startled is she.

'Mother? What's the matter? What's wrong?'

'Why, nothing at all.' Her mother sounds genuinely puzzled by the question. She also sounds as though she has been laughing, and the call doesn't have the sound of a trunk line. 'We're stopping at the Royal Victoria,' Sam's mother goes on. 'Your father and I,' she adds. Then, a bit more sharply: 'Samantha, are you _there?'_

'Yes – yes, of _course_ I am, Mother. Are you and Dad _here?_ In Hastings – er, St Leonards?'

'Yes, precisely! We arrived just before noon. We've come for a visit.'

'Oh – well – yes!' is all that Sam can manage.

'I'd not left West Sussex since before the war began,' her mother is saying, 'and your father hadn't been anywhere outside the deanery since he came here intending to fetch you home a couple of years ago – I do hope that you've forgiven him for that, dear. He meant well.'

'Of course I have, Mother. I know that he did.'

'At any rate, Harvest Home is safely over, Advent is still a few weeks away, and -'

 _'All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin,'_ Sam hears her father singing in the distance.

'Oh, _do_ stop, Iain, _please,_ I'm trying to speak to Samantha,' Sam's mother exclaims, and now she really _is_ laughing – _How long has it been,_ Sam wonders, _since I heard Mother actually_ laugh? – 'and we decided that this would be a good time for a brief change of scene, and we thought that we'd give you a surprise.'

'Well – yes!' Sam says again. And then: 'How lovely!'

'I think that we _have_ managed to surprise her, dear,' Sam hears her mother say, not quite into the handset, and then, 'Here is your father, Samantha.'

'Samantha, my dear.'

'Dad?'

 _'Well_ – _if_ you've neglected to say "hello" to your _mother_ as well as to _me,_ then we really _must_ have left you flabbergasted,' says Sam's father.

'Yes – hello – Dad – of course! I'm sorry. And... I really _am_ delighted that you and Mother are here. It's just that of course I didn't _know_ that you were going to come here, and I haven't _planned_ anything... '

'Oh, there's no need to worry about _that,_ Samantha. We've only come to see you and enjoy a change of pace. We were thinking that we could give you tea this afternoon.'

'Dad... that's really lovely of you, but I can't simply _leave_ the station in the middle of the day. _That_ wouldn't do at _all._ Unless,' Sam goes on, 'you could come _here.'_

This is, it seems, if not the wrong thing to say, then certainly not the right one.

'Your mother has never been inside a police station in her _life,_ Samantha!'

 _There's a first time for everything,_ Sam imagines replying, but before she can decide whether or not to do so her father goes on, in a more conciliatory tone of voice, 'I do take your point, however. Do you think that you might be able to leave in time to come here and have supper with us at... shall we say seven o'clock?'

'I'll have to ask Mr Foyle, but I _think_ so, yes. I'll telephone if I can't.'

Milner emerges from the passage into the waiting area. He holds two thin folders; seeing Sam on the telephone, he moves into her eye line and points at them.

'Dad,' he hears her say, 'I really am very, _very_ glad – please tell Mother that. But it seems that I'm _needed_ just now. ... Yes, seven o'clock, then, unless you hear from me. ... Well – I'll _try,_ but there might not be time to stop at my billet first. ... Yes. ... I'm _always_ careful, Dad. ... Good bye.'

'You were right about the address, Sam,' Milner tells her after she has rung off. 'That _is_ what Miss Beaux told PC Peters in September after she fell down the Wellington Road steps.'

'I'm sorry that I didn't remember it earlier.'

'Most people wouldn't have remembered it at all. In any event, when she was reported missing the gentleman there told us that he'd never heard of her, but Mr Foyle wants me to go back and ask him again. And since you've actually _met_ Miss Beaux and were able to confirm her physical description in the missing-persons file, you'll need to come in with me.'

'I'll get the car,' Sam says at once, but to Milner's surprise she doesn't move at first. 'Milner?'

'Yes, Sam?'

'Is there time for me to ask Mr Foyle a question before we leave?'

'No.'

* * *

Mr Walter Saxby, the occupant since 1928 of number 14, Plynlimmon Road, seems surprisingly receptive to a return visit from the police.

'This spares me the trouble of telephoning you,' he explains. He is in his late fifties, Sam guesses, physically slight, with steel grey hair and eyes of a similar colour. 'When I said that nothing was missing, Mr Milner, I genuinely believed that to be the case. As I was tidying the mess, however, I realised that in fact both my passport and my driving license have been taken. One has little use for either these days – travelling abroad is obviously impossible, and that's my Austin outside, up on blocks – and so some time ago I put them in the top right hand drawer of the desk. They're now gone.'

Milner takes down the details: passport issued in September 1934; last used in January 1939, when Mr Saxby returned from visiting Paris for Christmas and New Year's (which seems breathtakingly romantic to Sam, although she would of course _never_ say this in the interview); driving license issued at Hastings in February. He thanks Mr Saxby and tells him that they'll keep him informed.

'What's brought us back here, though,' Milner explains, 'is that on 1st September a woman named Josephine Beaux fell down the steps that lead from the West Hill embankment to Wellington Road and was slightly injured. She gave this house as her address.'

'Then she was either lying or confused. I live alone,' Mr Saxby says, sounding less cordial than before. 'Did she strike her head?' he asks dryly.

'Two days after that incident,' Milner goes on, ignoring this, 'a woman of the same name was reported missing, but from a different address, and it seems that she hadn't been seen _there_ since 31st August. You may recall that we contacted you at the time, Mr Saxby, and you _did_ say that the missing woman was unknown to you. My superintendent has asked me to confirm this. Do you know _anyone_ by that name?'

'I do not,' Mr Saxby replies at once.

'Miss Stewart was one of the people who assisted Miss Beaux on the day she was injured and was able to confirm her physical description for us. Sam, do you recall that?'

'Certainly – blue eyes, straight black hair. Roughly the same height as me, perhaps just a _bit_ shorter, and _quite_ slim. I'm a bit unclear as to her age,' Sam goes on. 'She told the constable who took her statement that she was twenty-four, but _I_ would have said that she must be in her _late_ twenties, or even _thirty._ I might have been mistaken, of course. And I remember thinking that her native language might have been French – simply from the _way_ she spoke English, I mean.'

'That would hardly be surprising in view of her name,' Mr Saxby remarks. 'If you're going to ask whether I am acquainted with anyone answering to that description, Mr Milner, the answer is no.'

'And you've always lived here alone?' Milner asks. 'You haven't had anyone billeted here, for example?'

'There are only two sleeping-rooms in this house – the billeting office hasn't any interest in a place like this. And they _certainly_ wouldn't billet a _woman_ here.'

'No,' Milner concedes. 'And before the war?'

'I did let my spare room to the curate of Emmanuel Church – a not especially competent young man called John Venables – for more than a year in 1938 and '39. He joined the Royal Navy shortly before war was declared. I don't know _where_ he is now.'

'All right, Mr Saxby. Thank you very much. We'll be on the lookout for your documents, but _you'll_ need to report their loss to the County Council and the Foreign Office.'

* * *

'His last trip out of the country was to France,' Sam observes when she and Milner are back in the Wolseley, 'and he knew at once that Miss Beaux's name is French.'

'Yes,' Milner agrees cautiously.

'Not _everyone_ would assume that. Constable Peters spelled it B-o-w in the incident report.'

'That's true.'

'I'm _certain_ that she didn't spell it that way _for_ him.'

 _Bloody typical of Peters not to_ ask _her to spell it,_ Milner thinks.

'Are we considering this as a break in the missing-persons case regarding Miss Beaux?'

'Sam -'

'Are the Police considering this as a break in the missing-persons case regarding Miss Beaux?' Sam corrects herself.

'Well... it's a new development, at least.'

'Thank you for letting me come into the interview with you, Milner.'

'Not at all, Sam. You were very helpful.'

'Where is Mr Foyle, though?'

'There's another case. A restaurant in the area's known to be serving black-market food, but we don't yet have enough evidence to make any arrests.'

'Oh, I see.'

'Was that your father on the telephone before we set out?' Milner asks.

'Yes, he and my mother arrived today – a _complete_ surprise! That's why I wanted to speak to Mr Foyle before we left the station. They're expecting to see me for supper at seven o'clock at the Royal Victoria, so I can't stay late tonight.'

'There's plenty of time. It's only a quarter past five. I'm sure he won't mind.'

'I need to place a telephone call as well.'

'Oh?'

'It isn't only _me_ they've come to see.'

'No,' Milner replies after a moment. 'No, I don't suppose it is.'

'So I need to get in touch with Andrew.'

'Of course. They've not met him before this, then?'

'It was only two months ago that I told them that he exists,' Sam explains.

'Really? Why?'

'I've been rather expecting that they won't like him -'

'You've no way of knowing that, Sam!'

'- more as a matter of principle than for any other reason, I'm afraid.'

'What do you mean?'

'Andrew _isn't_ the sort of person they'd be likely to come across in Lyminster.'

'Wouldn't a vicar and his wife cross paths with all _sorts_ of people?'

'Well... yes, if there were anyone _like_ Andrew to be found anywhere _near_ Lyminster.' _Don't prattle,_ Sam cautions herself, but when she glances towards the passenger side before making a left-hand turn she sees that Milner is waiting for her to continue.

'R.A.F. pilots don't have an especially good reputation amongst the general public – or _parts_ of it at any rate,' she explains. _The parts of it that worry that their daughters will become pregnant out of wedlock,_ she thinks.

'I've heard something like that,' Milner admits.

'I'm _sure_ that my parents would prefer that I conduct my personal life _exclusively_ amongst the clergy,' Sam goes on. 'They probably _assume_ that Andrew... ' She breaks off, feeling her face grow hot, then begins again. 'And then the Stewarts have been educated at Cambridge for _hundreds_ of years, but Andrew is an Oxford man.'

Out of the corner of her eye she observes that Milner is now trying not to laugh.

'No, _really,_ Milner, that's a serious matter! My grandparents even wanted my aunt to go to Girton – and that was _fifty_ years ago, almost! Apparently they were quite... _bewildered_ when she told them that she wanted to qualify as a nurse instead. And my other grandfather was my father's tutor at Cambridge.'

'A clergyman as well, then.'

'No, I mean his _first_ tutor. The Slade Professor. History of art.'

'Oh, that's right – the damaged sculpture! But Sam, if your parents have said that they want to meet Andrew – _have_ they said that they do?'

'No, not yet, but I know that they _will.'_

'Well, _I'd_ take that as a good sign.'

Sam doesn't reply to this. _Just as well,_ Milner thinks. _How would_ I _know whether it's a good sign?_ He thinks of Edith and Haslemere – and Jane, settled with her sister in Wales now but an unsolved problem nevertheless. He has no family to whom either Jane or Edie must be explained.

For a moment he is almost glad.

* * *

'Well, _this_ is unfortunate,' says Foyle, exasperated. 'We _haven't_ learned anything more about Miss Beaux's whereabouts, and our breaking-and-entering case has turned into a theft.'

'Of nothing other than two documents that are useless at present,' Milner agrees. 'Thank you, Sam.' She has just come into the room and handed each of them a cup of steaming tea from the tray she is carrying – bearing a companionable three cups, not two, Foyle notices.

'Not at all, but please don't expect too much,' she replies. 'These are the same tea leaves from this morning and there are no biscuits of any sort.'

'Sam made an interesting observation,' Milner goes on, just as Sam is trying to decide whether or not to leave the room with her tea, 'about Miss Beaux's name.'

'Oh, well,' Sam begins.

'What about it, Sam?' Foyle asks. _We've nothing else to go on, after all,_ he thinks.

'Well,' Sam repeats. 'I speak only a few words of schoolroom French, and even _that's_ pretty rusty now, I expect, but when Miss Beaux had her accident I thought that I could hear a faint French accent when she told us what had happened.'

'Yes, I recall you saying that.'

'I mentioned that to Mr Saxby when I described her to him this afternoon, and _he_ said that it wasn't surprising since she had a French name. He simply _assumed_ that it was French, sir! Not _everyone_ would do that – Constable Peters thought it was English, B-o-w.'

'Ought to have _asked_ her,' Foyle says, half to himself.

'And Mr Saxby's last trip out of the country before the war began was to France, sir,' Sam goes on. 'Of course that could _very_ well be a coincidence.'

'If he's conversant in French, or has friends in France, that might explain his assumption,' Foyle remarks. 'As I recall, there was a _possible_ sighting of Miss Beaux a day or two after she was reported missing.' He turns to a sheet of handwritten notes in the missing-persons file. 'Here it is – she _may_ have been seen at the Ruby Cinema on the evening of 5th September. The informant – Second Subaltern Glendora Lyle – is, um, billeted at the same address as Sam,' he goes on, looking up.

'She _was,_ sir. After Glenda received her commission she was rehoused at Clive Manor with the other A.T.S. officers.'

'Oh, yes, I see. She still there?'

'Yes, sir.'

'We may need to interview her.'

'That would require very good timing, sir. Glenda leads a searchlight troop' – Sam notes with satisfaction that Mr Foyle and Milner appear impressed by this – 'and so her duty schedule is a bit irregular. A lot of nights.'

'Mm. Taken under advisement,' Mr Foyle replies. He holds the handwritten sheet in one hand and has opened the incident file with the other. There is a silence. Sam feels a faint, fluttery tightness in her stomach.

'There are at _least_ two other people whom we ought to interview about this,' he says, 'one who saw Miss Beaux at the time of her injury and one whom Subaltern Lyle seems to have positively identified as being in the company of Miss Beaux, _if_ that's who she was, on the following Saturday evening. And if we're going to interview _them,_ we'll need to do so as soon as we can.' He looks at the mantel clock. It is now five minutes past six. 'Milner, Sam – can you both be on duty an hour earlier than usual tomorrow morning?'

'Certainly, sir.'

'Of course, sir. If I might ask,' Milner begins.

'They're both members of the United States Army's 215th Engineering Company,' Mr Foyle explains, 'and, um, this is privileged information, but I'm reliably informed that they'll be leaving the area no later than Friday, and possibly even tomorrow.'

Milner nods his understanding.

'Sir?' Sam asks. 'Excuse me, sir, I'm _so_ sorry.'

'What is it, Sam?'

'My _parents_ are here, at the Royal Victoria in St. Leonards on Sea – a surprise visit – and they're expecting me to join them there for supper at seven o'clock. Promptness,' Sam adds, 'is a cardinal virtue in our family.'

 _'Ah._ Well, I ought to be ready to leave in a few more minutes. Please remember me to your father,' Mr Foyle tells her.

'And me as well, Sam,' Milner adds.

'I will,' Sam assures them. 'Sir, about Glenda – would it be helpful if I were to telephone her and tell her in advance that you need to interview her? I've got to know her fairly _well_ during the past couple of months and I'm _quite_ sure that she'd be happy to share any information that she's got.'

'Thank you, Sam. Yes, that would probably be _very_ helpful. No great rush, however.'

'It might be best if I were to try sooner rather than later – tomorrow morning when we return from Hawthorne Cross, or even tonight if I'm back at my billet early enough. It can take some patience, I've found,' she continues, speaking rather deliberately now, 'to contact a _specific_ person at a military installation by _telephone.'_

Foyle shifts his gaze from the files on his desk to Sam.

'That's true,' he admits. 'I've had the same experience.'

Milner abruptly rises to his feet and begins returning cups and saucers to the tray that Sam brought in from the kitchen.

'There's a telephone call that I need to place before I leave _here,_ sir – and I'd really rather not do it from the front desk,' Sam goes on.

'Thank you again for the tea, Sam – I'm going to wash these things and put them away,' Milner announces, adding, 'You can use my office.'

'Oh – thank you, Milner.' Sam turns back to Mr Foyle. 'Sir, I was wondering – I understand that there's a restaurant that's being investigated for illegal trading.'

'Yes – and?'

'Might I please know what it is, sir? Just so that I can warn my parents not have any meals there. I wouldn't tell them _why,_ of course.'

* * *

 **Author's notes:  
** The hymn from which Mr. Stewart sings a snatch is _Come, Ye Thankful People Come,_ by Henry Alford (1810-1871), typically sung to the tune known as _St. George's Windsor,_ by George J. Elvey (1816-1893). I grew up singing this every year at my neighborhood's interfaith Thanksgiving Day service, but I recall singing "peace and plenty now begin" rather than the second line of the couplet quoted above.

Gasoline (petrol) was one of the first things to be rationed in the U.K. during the war, beginning on September 22nd, 1939 (after having originally been announced for a week earlier). Initially, the basic ration for privately-owned vehicles depended on the size of one's car and was sufficient for about 150 miles of driving per month, which was adequate for most city and many suburban dwellers but much less so in the countryside. The size of the ration was gradually cut back until March 13th, 1942, when it was announced that the basic petrol ration would cease to exist on July 1st – a measure taken with the stated goal of removing private cars from the roads.

Girton College is the oldest of Cambridge University's historically all-female colleges, founded in 1869. It was granted full college status in 1948 and became coeducational in 1976.

The study of art history at Cambridge University can be traced back to 1816 and the founding of the Fitzwilliam Museum, but began in earnest in 1869, when the bequest of Felix Slade created the Slade Professorship of Fine Arts (as well as similar chairs at the Universities of Oxford and London).


	3. Chapter 3

The weather has been mild for November during the daylight hours, but by the time Sam delivers Mr Foyle to Steep Lane the temperature has dropped. When she leaves the station for the night – setting out for the St Leonards seafront rather than Stonefield Road – she is glad that she troubled to bring her greatcoat, although she hadn't needed it on either of the trips to Plynlimmon Road.

Despite the drive for salvage the Royal Victoria has managed to keep hold of its bicycle rack. Sam leaves her cycle there and stands for a moment just inside the hotel's front doors, letting her eyes get used to the light after the blackout.

'Evenin'... miss,' says a man standing behind a small desk; he is unsure, perhaps, of how Sam ought to be addressed. _'_ How may I help you?'

'Good evening. Thank you – I'm here to meet my parents. They're stopping here,' Sam explains.

'Clergyman and his wife, by any chance?'

'Yes.'

'Only guests we've _got_ just now what aren't in the forces! They was sittin' upstairs in the lobby when I came down here,' the man says, pointing to the grand staircase that Sam remembers from her earlier visits. 'Good twenty minutes ago, though, _that_ were.'

'Thank you,' Sam says, and hurries up the stairs.

But the lobby is empty except for a small knot of officers. Sam moves towards the dining room and stands in the doorway. More officers take up the nearest tables. Then from one side she hears her mother say, 'My, my – _there's_ an arresting sight!' in an amused voice and turns to see her parents seated at a table by the wall.

The last time she'd seen her father he'd been shocked by the sight of her in uniform, and he looks faintly displeased now. For a few seconds it is as though no time at all has passed since the war began: she is twenty and at home and once her parents begin to take seriously her wish to leave Lyminster for war service they are dismayed by it.

Then her father smiles at her, a real smile, and it occurs to Sam that her mother has just made a joke.

'Hello, Mother – hello, Dad,' Sam begins, leaning to kiss each of them in turn. 'I'm not _late,_ am I? Dad asked me to go home and change my clothing before I came,' she explains to her mother, 'and I wish that I could have – then I could have worn that lovely rose-coloured scarf that you and Dad sent me! – but something came up at work and I couldn't leave the station until past six o'clock.'

'Why on earth would you want Samantha to do _that,_ Iain?' Sam's mother asks. 'You look quite _splendid,_ dear. Do remove that magnificent coat, please, and let us see the rest of your uniform! Why, look at those stars on the sleeves of your tunic!' she goes on as Sam drapes her coat on the back of her chair.

'I'm a section cadet officer now – _that's_ what my insignia mean. I was promoted in September. Didn't I tell you that when I wrote?'

' _No,_ Samantha, you did _not!_ Of course, you _did_ have a _great_ _deal_ to tell us in that letter -'

Mrs Stewart breaks off as she catches her husband's eye. Sam recognizes what she sees in her father's face as a warning look.

'- so I suppose that it's understandable that you left _something_ out,' her mother goes on, subsiding into a little smile.

'That's very wonderful news, though, Samantha. Many congratulations,' her father adds.

'Thank you,' says Sam. 'Of course, no one actually _reports_ to me, so it _isn't_ really that important.'

'Nevertheless, it suggests that you've made quite a success of your war service.'

'I do hope so, Dad,' Sam replies. 'How did you come here?' she asks.

'We set out yesterday after luncheon,' her father begins. 'Do you remember Mr Haley and his taxi service?'

'Oh, yes, of course!'

'He took us to Littlehampton. From there we took a motor coach to Brighton, where we spent the night and part of this morning.'

'We wanted to visit St Ethelwold's,' Sam's mother adds quietly. 'It had been quite some time since we'd been there.'

Sam nods, letting her smile fade. Her father had been curate of that parish years before she was born; two of her parents' children – her siblings – are buried in the churchyard there.

'And then we took another motor coach here,' her father goes on.

'How long will you stay?'

'Until Thursday,' says Sam's father. 'I'll admit that I wouldn't mind a longer holiday, and I'm sure that your mother wouldn't either, but I'm afraid that we'll have to begin making our way back to Lyminster by that afternoon.'

'Of course,' Sam replies.

Sam has not seen her father in well over two years, and it has been more than three since she has seen her mother. She looks from one to the other. _They've changed,_ she thinks.

It's been at least a decade and a half since her father's hair began to lose the chestnut color that she remembers from her childhood, but now it seems almost as white as her Uncle Aubrey's, and when he stands to hand her coat to an obliging waiter she sees that he is ever so slightly stooped. But if the war has aged him, then her mother looks almost rejuvenated. Despite that morning's visit to St Ethelwold's, with the sad memories that the place surely holds, there is a sparkle in her eyes that Sam hasn't seen in many years. _Excitement,_ Sam thinks. _That's it – she looks excited!_ Her mother, she notices, doesn't seem to have brought her walking stick with her.

'How _are_ you both?' she asks.

'Oh, well, can't complain,' Sam's father begins. 'The war continues to cause disruption – there've been several air raids on Littlehampton, and of course _we_ hear those alerts as well, and very nearly half the village has either been evacuated, joined the forces, or gone into war work.'

'I had a letter from Hattie Powell in June,' Sam recalls. 'She's a sergeant now.'

'Believe me, I'm aware of it,' her father replies. 'Mr and Mrs Powell are quite worried about her. _Everyone_ is tremendously worried about loved ones or friends who have left the village. Not without reason – Wilfred Hanley was killed in action last year and his brother Giles is a prisoner. So is Mark Twyford.'

'Oh, no!' Sam exclaims. _Why don't I already know any of this?_ she thinks. _Didn't they write to me about it, or wasn't I paying attention?_

'But the war _is_ a blessing in disguise in some respects,' he father continues, 'much though it pains me to say so. I think that it is teaching us _all_ a great deal of resiliency. People are just getting on with it, really.'

'And Mother, how are _you?'_ Sam asks. 'You look... splendid.' _Which is true,_ she thinks. _She really does._

Mrs Stewart doesn't reply immediately to her daughter's question, seeming to consider her words carefully before she speaks.

'War,' she says at last, 'is a very strange thing, I'm finding. The last war made me feel rather useless, to be honest. Your father and I were praying and hoping to start a family. I was so preoccupied with that problem that I had nothing left to offer to the Nation's call – or to the parish, in fact.'

'I'd hardly call your – _our_ – wish for a healthy child _frivolous,_ Emma, even in wartime,' Mr Stewart interjects.

'No, of _course_ it wasn't, my dear, but it _was_ all-consuming! But this time 'round I seem to have found my place, and even feel rather _useful,'_ Sam's mother goes on, 'although I'll admit I'm a bit _mystified_ as to how _that_ happened.'

'Aunt Amy told me that you joined the W.I.,' Sam recalls. 'I'm very glad to hear that, Mother.'

'Yes, I'm _sure_ that your Aunt Aemelia was _quite_ pleased,' says her mother, some asperity entering her tone. The sisters-in-law have never got on well, Sam knows. 'I really never thought that I would have much to contribute to the Women's Institute. I'm hardly a countrywoman, after all.'

'A hot-house flower,' Mr Stewart puts in, smiling at his wife.

'But to my surprise they seem quite happy to have me about, even when I do nothing but sit in the back of the room with my hands folded in my lap. Do you remember, Samantha,' Mrs Stewart goes on, 'that when you were preparing to leave Lyminster I wondered whether your availability as a sort of private nurse was allowing me, or perhaps _encouraging_ me would be a better way of putting it, to believe that I was more frail than perhaps I actually am?'

Sam does, in fact, remember this well. She had been too excited to think much about it at the time, but looking back at it now she had felt the way she supposed she would feel if her parents were to tell her that she was actually Aunt Amy's daughter – something that, in her unhappiest moments when she was younger, she had not been above imagining being true.

'I _do_ remember that,' is all she says, however.

'I think that I was more right about that than I knew,' her mother goes on. 'I _don't,_ I suspect, have the stamina that the Women's Voluntary Service would require, or I suppose that I'd have joined that instead. But I did want to do _something.'_

'And how are you managing about... household matters?' Before the war her mother had seemed overwhelmed by this even in her stretches of relative good health. 'Aunt Amy was very complementary about the luncheon you served when she visited you,' Sam goes on.

' _Was_ she, now?' her mother asks, the sharp edge returning to her voice. 'Well, if a _grande_ _châtelaine_ such as your _aunt_ was impressed, I suppose that I must be managing quite _well._ As for the parish,' she adds in a milder tone, 'well, perhaps I should let your father be the judge.'

'I hear no complaints, I assure you,' says Mr Stewart, although it isn't clear to Sam if he is addressing his wife or his daughter.

Plates of potato and kale soup are placed before them.

* * *

'No, I'm _sorry,'_ says Mrs Hardcastle, Sam's landlady, in that tone of hers that always makes Andrew feel like a nuisance. 'I've not seen her since early this _morning._ Some of the _other_ young ladies are here, though – I'll ask _them.'_ The sound becomes muffled for a moment; then Andrew hears a younger, vaguely familiar voice.

'Sir? Robinson here – I'm assigned to the airbase telephone exchange and as luck would have it Sam's call rang through to me.'

'And she didn't say _where_ she was going?'

'No, sir. She sounded a bit distracted when I spoke to her, so I suppose she might have _forgotten_ to mention whether her supper was at the Royal Victoria or elsewhere. I'm sorry not to have asked her, sir. If it _is_ at the Royal Vic, that's some distance from here – a mile and a half, I'd say – so she probably won't return until rather late.'

'Good thinking, sergeant – no need to apologise. Thank you. I'll try again later.'

'Not at all, sir.'

There is, as always, a queue for the officers' mess callbox. After Andrew rings off he starts to leave the mess, then changes his mind and rejoins the queue at the back.

* * *

'I understand why the police would be experiencing a manpower shortage, of course,' Mr Stewart says after the soup plates have been taken away. 'But somehow one would think that it wouldn't be such an urgent matter in wartime. A national emergency ought to lead to _less_ crime, rather than _more,_ as seems to have happened.'

'Some people blame it on so many _more_ things _being_ illegal now,' Sam replies. 'There's a black market for everything that's being rationed or that has simply become scarce – things like fish.' She and her parents are being served modest portions of sole, each accompanied by a mound of carrots and turnips mashed together. Everything has been sprinkled with parsley. 'So there's _that_ to keep the police busy, and then there's the problem of looting at wrecked houses -'

'Surely not!' Mrs Stewart exclaims in a shocked tone of voice.

'It's quite common, I'm afraid, Mother. They've made it a hanging offense, but that doesn't always stop people. The war has left a _lot_ of people in desperate circumstances,' Sam continues – though the looters at Mrs Harrison's place hadn't seemed terribly desperate to her, only greedy _–_ 'and desperate circumstances can lead to desperate behavior – and to people being taken advantage of.'

Mr Stewart looks troubled, although he nods in an understanding way.

'And I suppose,' he says, 'that desperate behavior, as you put it, can include... ' He trails off, glancing away from the women for a moment, then begins again. 'Well, the _last_ time I was here the detectives for whom Samantha works were looking into a murder,' he tells his wife.

'Yes. That's happened as well,' Sam answers simply.

'But not each and every _day,_ or even every _week,_ no doubt,' Sam's mother puts in. 'How do you spend your time, Samantha, when there's no need for you to drive anyone anywhere? You did write to us about those children collecting for salvage. That was really _very_ charming – we were rather hoping for _more_ stories like that one. What else _do_ you do?'

'Well... it depends on what's _needed,_ I suppose,' Sam begins. 'I try to be as useful as I _can_ be. I've given a _lot_ of first aid.'

'You're not involved in... _investigating_ crimes, are you, Samantha?' Her father sounds slightly alarmed now.

'No, of _course_ not! _I'm_ not a police officer, Dad. Sometimes if the detectives need to interview a woman or a child I'll sit in. I don't ask any questions, of course, but it seems to make it easier for them to speak to the police if they know that there's a woman listening. When the detectives go to the scene of... an incident,' Sam goes on, 'usually they tell me to stay with the car, and so of course I do that' – _usually,_ she adds to herself – 'but I _do_ try to pay attention to whatever's going _on_ in the area while we're there.' _No need to tell them about Bexhill,_ she reminds herself, _or that horrid Group Captain, or... other things._

'Have you witnessed _arrests,_ Samantha?' her father persists.

Sam wants to tell him, _I helped Mr Foyle_ make _an arrest on my very first day!_ But clearly her father is becoming dismayed, and such a reply won't help matters.

'Sometimes,' she replies. 'It's very rarely... distressing. People who've committed crimes usually know... ' _when the jig is up – no, no..._ 'when they've been bested, from what I've seen.'

'I suspect that Samantha is often privy to information that she's not at liberty to repeat,' Mrs Stewart comments.

Sam isn't sure whether she ought to be relieved by this remark or alarmed by it.

'That's true, Mother,' she replies, hoping that she at least sounds calm. 'I'm not meant to discuss cases with anyone outside the department, _certainly_ not while they're still open.'

'Not with _anyone?'_ her mother asks.

' _Emma,'_ her father puts in.

'With _no-one,'_ Sam says firmly, 'unless, of course, it would be in the interests of public safety to do so. And there _is_ something that I wanted to tell you.' She leans forward, lowering her voice so that her parents must lean forward as well. 'There's a restaurant called The Captain's Table -'

'Oh, yes!' Mrs Stewart exclaims. 'It's rather near to here. We rode by it in our taxi on the way from the coach stop. It looked quite nice.'

'It would be best _not_ to try it, I think,' Sam continues. 'There's liable to be... some _unpleasantness_ there in the near future.'

'Ah,' Mr Stewart says after taking this in. 'We'll bear that in mind. Is there anything _else_ that we ought to know?'

Sam hesitates for a moment. _Careless talk costs lives._ How often has she seen those words, on posters or in the newspaper? _Be like Dad – keep Mum!_ That one had made her want to laugh the first time she saw it, but she had been with Andrew at the time – it was early last year, just he was starting to fray at the edges – and had stopped herself after catching sight of his face.

Her back is turned towards the dining room. She turns her head to see whatever part of it she can, trying to look as though her father has just remarked on something taking place behind her and she wants to see it for herself.

Sure enough: just as the man in the foyer had said, she and her parents are the only civilians.

Sam turns back to her parents and once again leans forward.

'The Police Department are reliably informed,' she says, speaking as quietly as she can, 'that there are to be some troop movements into and out of greater Hastings this week – no later than mid-day Friday. Not a _huge_ number of servicemen, but it could be slightly... disruptive.'

She sits back, wondering if her parents are impressed that she knows something _that_ important.

They don't appear to be, although both of them are looking at her fixedly. They look worried.

 _Oh, good heavens, of course!_

She leans forward again and says very quietly, _'Not_ R.A.F. personnel, though.'

* * *

'Hello, Dad.'

'Andrew! I didn't expect you to telephone this early in the week. Good to hear you though, of course. How are you?'

'Sam's _parents_ are in Hastings.'

'Well, they're in St Leonards on Sea – if you want to split hairs, I suppose – but yes, they're visiting her. She went to have supper with them at their hotel.'

'It _is_ at the Royal Vic, then. She forgot to tell the telephone exchange that bit.'

'Hasn't seen her father in more than two years and her mother in about _three,_ as far as I know, and it seems that they arrived unannounced, so it _might_ be expected that she was a bit disconcerted at the time.'

'Yeah, that's true. Look, Dad, do you suppose that they're, um... '

' ...going to want to meet you?' Foyle completes his son's question. 'It wouldn't surprise me to learn that that was one of their chief reasons for making the journey – now that they know about you.'

'Well, for _pity's_ sake, Dad, what am I going to _say_ to them?! Do you realise,' Andrew goes on, in a different tone of voice, 'that they snatched Sam out of school as soon as it was legal? To _do_ that to a girl with _such_ a good mind!'

 _'Don't_ say _that_ to them, to begin with.'

'No Girl Guides,' Andrew continues, 'she's never learnt how to swim, she's only been in a _boat_ once or twice – they kept her inside of a _bottle!_ And she had _quite_ a struggle, you know, to persuade them to let her join the MTC. She was only twenty when the war started so she needed permission.'

'I'm aware of that,' Foyle says. 'Remember that Sam's an only child, Andrew. So are you, of course, but Sam's, um, an only _daughter,_ which might make quite a difference to some people. And from what I understand her parents aren't _from_ this part of the country – I don't recall where her father comes from, but I know that her mother's from Cambridge -'

'He's from Haltwhistle, or at least that's where Sam's grandfather was bishop. Dad -'

'Right – up north. Apparently Lyminster is a _very_ small village. Mostly farms. The point being that they found themselves set down in what may _not_ have seemed to them the most _congenial_ setting imaginable. _And_ may not have wanted Sam to be, um, unduly influenced by that setting.'

'Yes, I suppose they _might_ be quite a pair of snobs! Dad -'

' _Really,_ Andrew, I don't know that I'd go _that_ far. As for Sam's having left school so early, _that's_ news to me, but possibly her mother's _health_ had something to do with it. I met Sam's father a couple of years ago, and as I recall he mentioned that his wife was ill.'

'That's exactly how Sam explained it to me, in fact, when were, um, first getting to know one another. Dad, Sam _isn't_ an only child.'

* * *

 **Author's notes:  
** The ( _completely fictional_ ) Diocese of Haltwhistle comprises portions of western Northumberland and what was until 1965 eastern Cumberland (now in Cumbria), as well as the far western area of County Durham and is home to a significant number of people of at least partly Scottish ancestry. The extreme eastern end of Haltwhistle Cathedral is pre-Norman, but the building was expanded several times between the reigns of Henry I and Anne, creating what the Rev. Iain Stewart dismisses as an architectural jumble, although his siblings recall it with great affection.


	4. Chapter 4

His son's announcement brings Foyle up short.

'I've _never_ heard Sam speak about any siblings. I'm _certain_ of that, Andrew.' _And it's never so much as occurred to me to ask her,_ he admits silently.

Andrew is silent for a few seconds.

'I _really_ oughtn't to have brought it up,' he begins. 'It's Sam's story to tell, after all – _not_ mine.'

Never, though, has she asked him not to repeat it.

'But, um... given that I _did_ say it... ' Andrew goes on slowly, before trailing off into another silence. 'Well. In a nutshell,' he continues, 'Sam's the youngest of seven children. There were two other girls and four boys before her. She's the only one who lived more than a few months – most of them didn't even make it _that_ long. They were all born too early, she thinks. Her parents had been married for a decade by the time they had her.'

'Really. Never knew that,' he replies after a long silence. He is silent for another moment before he continues. 'Look, Andrew – I've stood in your shoes and you have my complete sympathy, rest assured.' _At least you're not a police sergeant's son, and a ranker, and in proud possession of a grammar-school education that was more than anyone else in your family ever managed to get, presenting yourself to a captain of industry and his wife,_ he thinks.

'Thank you,' Andrew says.

 _'You_ think that Sam's parents place too low a value on her.'

'Yes, I suppose that I _do_ think that.'

'And it _sounds_ as though you're worried that that will get the _better_ of you when you meet them.'

'That's _definitely_ true.'

'Well then, why not _start_ by trying to make it clear to them why _you_ think so _highly_ of her?'

* * *

'Samantha, your mother and I are _not_ here to prevail upon you to return home,' Mr Stewart says. 'I _do_ hope that you understand that.'

'Yes,' Sam responds, 'of course I do, Dad.'

'I suppose that we want to reassure ourselves once and for all,' he goes on, 'first, that you have recovered from your bout of bronchitis during the summer -'

'I have, Dad, thank you for asking. I'm _quite_ well now.'

'- and that the... _form_ that your war service has taken is... _suitable_ – but you've done a great deal of _that_ part _for_ us this evening, and in splendid fashion!'

'Thank you. I'm really _very_ glad to hear you say that.'

'It does seem a rather _public_ assignment,' Sam's mother puts in. 'The work that you did previously was more _discreet,_ I thought.'

'Well... I didn't _mind_ driving for the Ministry of Aircraft Production, although it wasn't terribly _interesting._ I _did_ meet _quite_ a good friend that way, indirectly at least. Anne Woods – Bolton, as was. She's the one I wrote to you about, who was married in April.'

'I thought that your friend took photographs for a newspaper,' says Mr Stewart.

'She does that _now,'_ Sam says. 'When I met her she worked in an aircraft factory.'

'And changed over to photography – why?' her mother asks.

'Well, to begin with she's _awfully_ good at it. And Greville, that's her husband,' Sam begins to explain, and then falls silent.

 _Oh, no._

 _No point in beating about the bush,_ she decides. _There's a war on. They do know that._

She tells her parents about the end of Greville's flying career, most of two years ago now, deciding as she does so to leave out the facts that he and Andrew used to fly in the same squadron, that when Greville crashed he was flying Andrew's Spitfire, with its malfunctioning cockpit slide, and that Andrew had in fact volunteered for that very mission, despite being on leave and exhausted at the time.

'And Anne _quite_ understandably _didn't_ want to go on building aeroplanes after that,' she continues. 'But the _important_ thing is that Greville _is_ recovering. He can't fly any longer, of course – there _was_ a bit of damage to the optic nerve, and to his left hand as well.'

'A disabled veteran, then,' Mr Stewart says somberly.

 _'No,_ actually – he was reassigned to the Special Duties Branch. He isn't allowed to utter a _word_ about what he does now, but he seems to be enjoying it very much. In any event he and Anne are married now. Anne's expecting a baby.'

'Oh, my,' Sam's father says with a sigh. 'In wartime.'

 _She's as big as a house and the baby's not due for another three months – I won't be surprised if she has twins,_ Sam stops herself from going on.

 _No._ Don't _tell Mother and Dad such a thing._

* * *

The night air is cold and sweet after the hot, stuffy officers' mess. There is only a thin sliver of the waxing moon to dispel the blackout, and Andrew is careful to let his eyes adjust to the darkness before starting to make his way to the officers' quarters.

 _Then again, it must be 2030 by now,_ he thinks. _I ought to try telephoning Sam again fairly soon. If I go back to quarters I'll need to go out into the darkness again and then come back._

There's nowhere to sit out here but Andrew decides to stay where he is nevertheless. The stars are beautiful, dimmed only slightly by the chain of searchlights that guard the South Coast.

The door to the mess opens once again, discharging a boisterous group who set out heedlessly, one of them promptly tripping over something in the darkness. A few moments later they are followed by a solitary figure, tall and thin, who stands to one side of the door before going anywhere.

'You're wise,' Andrew comments.

'Is that you, Andrew? Thought you'd gone back to quarters. What are you doing standing out here?' The voice belongs to his friend Robert Chatto. In the more congenial setting of Hastings they have set aside their Debden practice of calling each other by their surnames, at least when their Squadron Leader isn't about.

'I need to telephone Sam,' Andrew explains, 'and she's not expected back at her billet for a while longer. No point in having to let my eyes get used to the light and the dark over and over again.'

'Ladies' evening out?'

'No – her parents are paying her a surprise visit, it seems. She's having supper with them. I've not met them as yet,' Andrew continues, 'which I think might change quite soon.'

West of the airbase – quite nearby, Andrew guesses – one of the searchlights suddenly dips its beam towards the Channel. He can just make out Chatto turning to watch as it rises again, traces a circle, and repeats the pattern twice.

* * *

'And being an automobile mechanic – do you like being a driver better than _that?'_ Sam's mother asks, with some mischief in her voice.

'I didn't mind... the _idea_ of being a mechanic, but – Mother, do you remember that day when we went to Littlehampton and met Mrs Peake when she was recruiting for the MTC and she told us that women make better mechanics than men?'

'I _do_ remember that. I rather liked her. Is she a Frenchwoman?' Mrs Stewart enquires.

'She's Belgian. She's the Corps Commandant now, you know,' Sam remarks. 'At any rate I'm afraid that I _might_ be the _exception_ – to her idea about women mechanics, I mean. And I _can't_ say that I liked it very much. As well, the Area Commandant here, Mrs Bradley, didn't much like me, so the garage at Area Command _wasn't_ a very pleasant place to work. But of course _that_ only went on for a few weeks.'

* * *

'That's Glenda's light,' Chatto says, and Andrew is surprised by the tension in his friend's voice. 'Silverhill,' he explains.

'Do you worry about her very much?' Andrew asks.

'Yes, in fact – I _do._ That's a very dangerous job that she's got. She's very _good_ at it, of course – _must_ be, or she wouldn't have lasted this long, to say nothing of coming up through the ranks as quickly as she has! But it's still a hazardous assignment.'

The searchlight comes to rest in the place where it started.

'Do you ever worry about Sam?' Chatto asks, and then begins to answer his own question. 'I don't suppose there's any _need_ to.'

'Constantly,' Andrew answers him. 'Strange, isn't it? When we started walking out she told me that her hair would probably turn grey from worrying about _me._ She was only joking, but now _I'm_ the one who worries that _she'll_ be injured or kidnapped or – or God only knows what else.'

'Good Lord! Could anything of that sort actually _happen_ to her?'

'It could! All you need to do is read the _Chronicle._ Crime has skyrocketed since the war began. Of course that's in no small part because so many things have _become_ illegal since then. I know my father spends a lot of his time now dealing with profiteers of one kind or another – illegal trading, looting and so forth. And it all seems to make for a lot of vicious behaviour. Sam's been shot at on the road. The car she drives was sabotaged once, so that the axle jammed when she got it up to full speed.'

'Sabotaged!? Andrew!'

'Oh, well – that had nothing to do with profiteering.'

 _Don't bring up_ anything _to do with that business,_ Andrew warns himself.

'She's _unbelievably_ brave, you know,' he goes on. 'Once she faced down a drunken soldier who started waving his pistol about in a pub. And she's been known to volunteer for, um, things that I wish she _wouldn't_ volunteer for.'

 _And she hid me when I overstayed my leave. And she knows all of my secrets, and she keeps them._

 _Change the subject. Stop thinking about this,_ Andrew tells himself sternly, _before you get Sam_ and _yourself into trouble._

'Have you met any of Glenda's family? Well – early days yet, I suppose,' he says.

His friend is silent for a few seconds.

'As it happens, Glenda doesn't _have_ any relations for me to meet,' Chatto replies at last.

'Oh, yes, of course – Sam told me,' Andrew replies hurriedly. _No relations who'll admit that she exists, at any rate._

'That's the thing _about_ Glenda, though, she's never let _any_ of that rot stop her,' Chatto goes on. 'She simply – I don't know, she takes _everything_ in her stride. But it's another thing to worry about, isn't it? If Glenda were a man she'd be called a friendless soldier, you know. If something _were_ to happen to her, who'd receive a telegram? How would _I_ find out?'

'You ought to speak with her about that, Robert – work out some sort of arrangement.'

'Point taken. Quite right, in fact. _Writing_ to her might be faster, though,' Chatto adds quietly, sounding faintly amused now.

'Sorry?'

'Her duty schedule – God help us! Six nights on, two off. We're rather lucky if we see one another once a fortnight. We're stationed not two miles apart and we write each other _letters._ It's quite mad, really.'

A second searchlight, further off to the west and closer to the shore, executes the same dipping, rising, and circling manoeuvre as the first.

* * *

'I'll ask Mrs Hardcastle if I might show you my billet,' Sam offers. 'She might say no, though. She doesn't like us having visitors.'

'Not even your own parents? That seems a bit... austere,' her father says.

'She's _very_ strict about some things,' Sam acknowledges, 'but I suppose one has to try seeing it from her point of view. She's been operating the property as a boarding house for quite some time, I gather, but before the war she had more say-so about who she let rooms to. The house was requisitioned as a billet, and her remit is only for other ranks and civilian war workers like me – she could charge officers a higher rental, I suppose. But she's not a _bad_ sort, in her way.'

'How do you manage for meals there?' her mother asks.

'Mrs Hardcastle cooks supper for us during the week,' Sam explains. 'Once a week – on Tuesdays, in fact – we give her our ration books and she goes 'round the shops and buys food to cook for us, and then she cooks the meal and leaves it in the kitchen. We serve ourselves and clean up after ourselves. Each of us sees to her own breakfast in the mornings and during the week-ends we shift for ourselves. I suppose if I were billeted with a family it might be a bit more... _gracious,_ but there are nice girls there, and we really _do_ have a jolly time!'

She tells them about the girls at Mrs Hardcastle's: Helen Jones, the Wren who runs the telegraph office at the Hastings Naval installation and 'is rather inclined to see the glass half-empty, although I _do_ think that she tries _not_ to be that way – I'd like to see something really _nice_ happen to her'; the level-headed Penelope Robinson, who answers telephones at R.A.F. Hastings 'and is a very _calming_ influence on all of us, I think – especially Helen, who can be a bit highly-strung at times'; the midwife Felicity Prothero, 'who was already there when I moved in, and she's a bit older than the rest of us, I think, and she's's nervous about being called up next year.' And about Glenda, as well: 'Can you _imagine,_ she used to run the stage lights at places like the Old Vic, and now she runs searchlights for the Royal Artillery!'

But her parents' attention is riveted by her passing mention of the airbase. She is, she realises, only putting matters off.

* * *

'Ought we to take shelter?' Andrew wonders aloud.

'I don't hear any 'planes. None of theirs, none of ours.'

'Neither do I. We can wait for the alert to sound,' Andrew agrees. 'Are you in love with Glenda, then?' he asks abruptly. When there is no immediate answer he goes on, 'Sorry. Impertinent prying question withdrawn.'

'No need for that, Andrew. It's just that I don't know! I don't even know how to _talk_ about this, quite,' Chatto explains, sounding abashed. 'Glenda's not like _any_ other girl I've ever met.'

'You _are_ in love with her, then! You sound _exactly_ like me a couple of years ago.'

'Yes, well, the thing of it is, though... ' Chatto trails off, then begins again: 'I'd like to at least _try_ not mucking this up as I've always managed to do in the past.'

'That as well. If I'm nervous about the prospect of meeting Sam's mother and father – which I _am,_ if I haven't made that clear – it's partly because _no_ girl has _ever_ introduced me to her parents. Nothing's lasted long enough before now for that to happen. _I'm_ entirely to blame for that.'

'One doesn't like to ask indelicate questions,' Chatto remarks.

'The answer's no,' Andrew tells him. 'That is – you mean Sam, don't you? No. Vicar's daughter and all that. Very strict upbringing. Just as well, I suppose, much as I... ' he goes on before trailing off in his turn. He is surprised to feel his face growing hot.

'Nor Glenda and I, if that makes you feel any better. Though as you say, it's early days yet.'

'You surprise me. Somehow I'd have imagined that people like you and Glenda – coming from the theatre, I mean – would just... ' Once again he trails off into silence.

'The theatre, as a section of society, has been known to fail to live up to its reputation for hedonism and license, at least in _my_ experience – which admittedly ended, what, almost ten years ago now.'

'Well, for whatever it may be worth, Robert, Sam told me that Glenda has told _her_ that she considers Sam a good influence on her.'

'I'll bear that in mind,' Chatto says dryly, and then adds abruptly, 'What _did_ happen during the summer, then, Andrew? You simply _stopped_ talking about her – about Sam, I mean. I'm sorry,' he adds quickly, 'if I'm speaking out of turn.'

'We broke up for a time,' Andrew admits. _True as far as that goes,_ he thinks. 'My fault, and I knew it, and I was miserable – although it _wasn't_ the way I've probably made it sound. But Sam's given me a second chance, which goes to show again how marvelous she _is,_ and... we've put last summer behind us.'

East of them, a third searchlight dips, rises and traces a circle. The first two do likewise; then all three beams begin moving towards the same point.

'Right,' says Chatto. 'Time to go to ground, I think.' He begins moving through the darkness towards the mess.

The warning has not yet sounded. Andrew follows, but stops for an instant as he reaches the door. From not too far off, at the eastern edge of the base, he can hear a familiar sound: Spitfires – a dozen or more of them, he is sure – preparing to take off.

* * *

The sole is taken away; in its place appear servings of bread pudding, with jam in place of custard.

'Why don't you come and visit Hastings Police headquarters?' Sam ventures. 'Mr Foyle and Sergeant Milner asked to be remembered to you, Dad. I'm sure that they would enjoy actually _seeing_ you again, and meeting _you,_ Mother.'

' _Samantha,'_ her father begins.

'That would be _quite_ interesting, I think,' her mother interjects. 'I've _never_ visited a police station. Where is yours located?'

'In Bohemia Road, just north of where it meets Magdalen Road,' Sam explains, 'about a mile from here.'

'Your mother can't _possibly_ walk that far, Samantha,' Mr Stewart says.

'Why don't we discover whether I can or not?' Mrs Stewart asks him.

'You do have your walking stick, don't you, Mother?'

'Oh, certainly I do – it's upstairs in our room. It didn't seem necessary, coming down here in the lift.'

'But alongside _that,_ supposing that you and your detectives aren't on the premises when we arrive?' Sam's father insists. 'What then?'

'Well, that _is_ a good point,' Sam admits. 'But we _always_ come back to the station, and Sergeant Brooke will look after you while I'm gone. You don't know him, Dad – he was transferred from London in April – but he's _awfully_ nice. When someone is arrested,' she adds, 'they're nearly _always_ brought into the station through the rear. You'd be _most_ unlikely to see them.'

Sam's father looks relieved. None of the Stewarts says anything for a moment.

 _Andrew is really the only thing left now for us to talk about now,_ Sam thinks. _Well, then. Let's go_ to _it, as Mr Morrison says._

All three of them raise their heads, looking upwards as people do, when the air-raid siren begins to sound.

* * *

 **Author's notes:**  
The searchlight maneuvers that I have described here are imaginary.

Herbert Morrison, then Minister of Supply, gave a speech on the radio on May 22nd, 1940, that concluded with, "Work is the call. Work at war speed. Good-night – and go to it." Those last three words became a catchphrase that endured throughout the war, but which is said to have been greeted in some quarters with the riposte, "Come off it."


	5. Chapter 5

Two stories beneath the dining room, the entire basement of the Royal Victoria has been made into an air-raid shelter for the hotel's guests and staff, with benches and chairs, several tables and more than a hundred bunks. The Stewarts find that making their way there is a bit challenging. Sam's mother has never liked descending an unfamiliar staircase even _with_ her stick, at least not in Sam's memory, and the A.R.P. warden's first instruction – he is the _maître d'hôtel,_ sensibly enough – is to use the stairs, _not_ the lift. Sam has so rarely been in a building with lift service that she is puzzled about this at first.

'A lift uses electrical power, Samantha,' her father explains as they leave the dining room, bristling slightly in a way that is too familiar to her. _'Think_ of what would happen if the hotel were to _lose_ power while we were in the lift. We might be trapped there for _hours!'_

Her mother manages the stairs down to the ground floor without incident, but freezes at the entrance to the narrow, rather dark cellar stairwell, seemingly oblivious to her husband and daughter's attempts at encouragement.

'May I assist you, madam?'

Sam's stomach lurches for an instant when she sees the owner of this voice, a middle-aged WAAF.

 _No,_ she thinks. _No,_ _of course it isn't. Of course not. Don't be daft. She isn't even_ in _the forces._

* * *

'Samantha, dear,' Mrs Stewart begins, once she is settled in a captain's chair in the shelter. 'There is a subject that we seem to have been avoiding.'

'I know that there is,' Sam admits.

'Your father and I would very much like to meet the young man whom you mentioned in your letter.'

'Andrew – yes, of course. But it's not quite as simple as it may seem, you see,' Sam explains. 'Andrew is quartered at the airbase during the week. He can't simply _leave_ whenever he cares to – he has to be given permission. I usually see him only during the week-ends. We always speak on the telephone during the week, but _he_ telephones _me.'_

'One would _expect_ is to be so,' Mr Stewart puts in, in all seriousness.

'It isn't a question of _propriety,_ Dad. One _can't_ simply telephone a military base and ask to be put through to a specific person – it almost _always_ means leaving a message. I _have_ left a message for Andrew, that you and Mother are visiting – I did that just before I drove Mr Foyle home – but now I have to wait for him to return my call. Your visit is a _lovely_ surprise, it _really_ is, but _this_ part of it would have been a great deal easier if you'd let me know that you were coming.'

'I suppose that what this means is that you can't linger too long over supper,' Mr Stewart says. 'You'll need to wait at your billet for his call.'

'I'm afraid that's true. There's another reason as well – I need to drive Mr Foyle and Sergeant Milner out to the country tomorrow morning to interview... some people, and Mr Foyle wants to set out as early as possible.'

'In order to catch them before they can slip away?' Sam's mother sounds amused by this idea, but before Sam can reply the all clear sounds.

* * *

'You wrote in September that this young man is the son of your employer,' Sam's father remarks. 'Hastings people, are they?'

'Yes, I suppose so,' says Sam, who has never really given much thought to this. She has been persuaded to return to the table in order to polish off her bread pudding. 'Andrew was born here.'

'And you did tell us in 1940 that Mr Foyle is a widower. Did his wife die very long ago?' her mother asks.

'She died during the winter of 1932 – from typhoid. She was _quite_ young – not yet forty, I know, and possibly closer to thirty. Andrew was only thirteen.'

'Was she also from Hastings?'

'No – from Kew, in Surrey. Almost everything that I know about her is what Andrew has told me. I haven't asked much – one _doesn't_ want to pick at an old wound, after all.'

'No, certainly not,' Mr Stewart agrees.

'And Mr Foyle almost _never_ talks about her,' Sam continues, 'although he's got her watercolours hanging in his office, and all over his house.'

'Have you been _in_ his house, Samantha?' Sam's mother asks sharply.

 _Oh_ _– oh, dear._

'Only in the hall,' Sam replies, looking directly at her mother, 'and once I was in the sitting room. That was just before I drove Andrew to his post after his leave in September, and Mr Foyle gave me tea.'

 _What they don't know won't hurt them,_ she tells herself, _but oh, Lord, how horrid to have to lie!_

'Did you say his wife's _watercolours?'_ her father inquires.

'Yes,' Sam tells him, relieved that the subject has shifted by even this much. 'Landscapes and seascapes mostly, and I remember seeing a still life in the sitting room. I heard Mr Foyle say once that her professional name was Rosalind Howard. That was how he put it – "her _professional_ name" – so she must have exhibited her work somewhere. Andrew's uncle is called Charles Howard, so it must have been her maiden name. The watercolours, the ones that I've seen, are _very_ beautiful.'

'That's really quite fascinating,' says Mr Stewart. 'A great _many_ artists have been associated with Kew, though I _don't_ believe that too many have been born and bred there. Still, the atmosphere was beneficial, no doubt.'

'The Howard family used to own a printing concern, Andrew told me,' Sam offers.

'Why, of _course!_ Howard  & Co.! They used to specialise in fine engraving and lithography. Illustrated books, as well – plates to be tipped into monographs and the like,' Mr Stewart tells his wife. 'Your father's library was _full_ of their output. Some dreadful horizontal combine purchased all of their assets during the Depression. _Most_ sad.'

'And Mr. Howard, have you met _him?'_ Sam's mother asks.

 _'Commander_ Howard,' Sam replies. 'He has a post at the Admiralty. No, Mother, I've not met him. Mr Foyle went up once to see him about something – they're rather good friends, I think – but he traveled by motor coach. We have to be careful about using up the petrol ration, you know.'

'Even in officialdom,' her father sighs.

'How are you managing without the car, Dad?'

'Oh... neither better nor worse than anyone else, I suppose. I'm becoming quite _fit,_ with all of this time on the bicycle, but winter is liable to put paid to _that,_ I fear.'

Sam nods sympathetically, ready to commiserate, but her father moves on.

'Does Flight Lieutenant Foyle have brothers or sisters?'

'No, none,' Sam replies, adding, 'None at _all.'_

'What was he doing before the war?' her father asks. 'Is he an artist as well, or was he already in the R.A.F. at that time?'

Sam sits even more upright than before.

'He took a firs-' she begins.

'Iain, dear,' her mother interjects, placing a hand over one of her husband's. 'Why don't we see whether it will be possible for Samantha to introduce this young man to us, and then we can let him speak for himself? We really ought to let her return to her residence soon.'

'Oh, yes!' Sam exclaims. 'Andrew can tell you about himself _far_ better than _I_ can talk about _him._ He puts things so _well!_ And he writes poetry, you know.' _Don't prattle,_ she chides herself for the second time that day.

But her parents' faces, she sees, have once again taken on the look of carefully controlled alarm that she has seen on them so many times – even this evening, despite the reunion having gone far better, really, than Sam could have hoped for.

'Samantha,' her father says, 'you _did_ tell us that you and this young man were estranged for several months this year.'

Sam raises her chin a bit and squares her shoulders.

'Andrew and I,' she says in what she hopes is a _very_ firm voice, 'have decided to put that behind us.'

* * *

At the south end of Stonefield Road Sam dismounts her bicycle and begins to walk beside it in the darkness. As she draws closer to no. 25 she sees that someone else is doing the same, coming from the opposite direction.

'Good evening,' Sam calls out softly as she reaches Mrs Hardcastle's front door.

'Hello! Is that Sam?' Felicity Prothero asks as she draws up beside her. _'You're_ out rather late!'

'I was having supper with my parents – they're visiting.'

'Oh, _that's_ awfully nice! _I_ was delivering a baby.'

'Not during the alert?!'

'Yes! Born as the sirens wailed! A first for me, and quite possibly for Hastings as well! At least it turned out not to be an actual raid – although of course it _must_ have been a raid somewhere _else.'_

The bicycles having been put into place and the complicated business of entering the house during blackout hours having been accomplished, Felicity puts on the lamp that sits on the hall table, next to the telephone and the old toast racks that Mrs Hardcastle has used to set up a letter slot for each of her tenants. There is a corkboard on the wall above this; tacked to it is a hand-written sign reading _Letters will_ _NOT_ _be posted for you!_ Sam finds her ration book in her slot, along with a note.

 _10-xi-42 - 1945h  
Sam -  
FltLt Foyle telephoned for you and will try again later in the evening.  
\- Penny Robinson  
P.S. 2130h – Helen is doing a double shift and will be at the dockyards all night. I don't know where Felicity is. Mrs H and I have both decided on an early night. Mrs H is going to visit her sister the first part of next week and we will have to do our own marketing and supper._

She reads the last part to Felicity, who nods.

'Are you going right up to bed, Sam?'

'Not yet – I'm expecting a telephone call.'

'Want to sit in there and chat?' Felicity goes on, nodding towards the sitting room.

'By all means.'

'I've been debating with myself all day whether or not to tell you this, Sam,' says Felicity, settling into an easy chair. 'But it seems to me that you're _bound_ to find out about it in one way or another.'

'Is something wrong?'

'One of the other midwives in my group was killed in the raid on the seventeenth of October.'

'Oh, I _am_ sorry!'

'Thank you. It's a real loss for us. The point, though,' Felicity goes on, 'is that each of us has had to take on a couple of her patients, and one of my new ones is your friend Mrs Woods. You introduced us when we all went to the Silver Horn to celebrate Glenda's commission – _as_ you may recall. I had to examine her first thing this morning. I thought I would die of embarrassment.'

'It was really almost by chance that Anne and Greville were there that evening,' Sam points out. 'I'm sure that she's forgotten all about it.'

 _'I'm_ not! I was never so drunk in my _life_ – I shall never, _ever_ again try stout! – and she and her husband were _so_ kind to me, bringing me back here as they did. She didn't say _anything_ about it today, that's true – just, "How lovely to see you again! What a small world!" The thing is, though -'

'That's most likely for me. Please excuse me,' says Sam as the telephone begins to ring.

She dashes back into the hall and answers in the midst of the third ring.

'Hardcastle residence – Sam Stewart here.'

'Sam! Are you all right?' Andrew asks.

'Oh, of _course_ I am! Everyone in the hotel went to shelter in the basement. What about you?'

'Underneath the mess. Fairly decent company, and it didn't last _too_ long – I'm fine. How... um, how was your supper?'

'It actually went rather _well!'_ Sam announces, sounding surprised. 'The war seems to have made my parents more... self-reliant, somehow. That's what my Aunt Amy told me, you know, and it really does seem to be _true!_ My mother especially seems quite changed for the better – at supper she said that I look _arresting_ in my uniform!'

Andrew makes a small groaning sound.

'My parents are _quite_ eager to meet you, Andrew,' Sam continues.

'Well,' Andrew says, and takes a deep breath. 'By all means. This will be something new for me, though, my darling. No girl has _ever_ introduced me to her parents.'

 _'I've_ never introduced a beau to mine,' Sam points out. 'But I don't understand – weren't you considered... presentable?'

'I don't know whether I was or not. What I _do_ know is that you're the only girl who's ever failed to get completely fed up with me after three or four months.'

'None of them was the right girl, then, obviously.'

'No, definitely not. You're absolutely right about _that,'_ Andrew replies.

'In any event,' Sam tells him, 'I _don't_ think that you ought to be too nervous about this – I really got the feeling that they're rather willing to like you, Andrew. They did ask a _lot_ of questions about your family. My father was _quite_ interested to hear that your mother was an artist, _and_ about your grandfather's company. There _is_ one problem, though,' she goes on. 'He says that they'll have to set out for Lyminster by Thursday afternoon.'

'It would have to be tomorrow night, then – _if_ I can get a chit for the night.'

'I _did_ explain that problem to them!'

'And that'll have to be up to Palgrave, I'm afraid. He's been in a foul temper for the past couple of days – I'm not sure why – and going over his head to WingCo will only make things worse.'

'We'll have to hope for the best, then.'

'Agreed. If I _do_ get to come into town, what would be a good place? Your father isn't much for pubs, I suppose.'

'That _wouldn't_ be his first choice, quite true.'

'I'll think about it.'

'So shall I – we'll see what we can come up with. There's something else that I need to tell you, Andrew.'

'What's that?'

'Can you hear me if I lower my voice like this?'

'Yes, just about.'

'Do you remember the woman at the Wellington Road steps in September?'

'Oh, yes – and then she was reported missing.'

 _'Exactly._ There's been a new development in that case. This morning -'

'Sam – sorry to interrupt, but does Dad know that you're telling me this?'

'No,' Sam admits. 'But your father may want you to give a statement, and I don't want you to be caught off guard.'

'I won't be,' Andrew assures her. 'I don't want _you_ getting into any trouble with Dad.'

* * *

'Is Anne going to have twins?' Sam asks Felicity, who is still in the sitting room, paging through _Radio Times._ 'Or are you permitted to discuss that sort of thing?' she adds, seeing her friend's startled look.

'Well, I'm _not_ in fact, but since you _have_ brought it up, I don't see any signs that she is, no.'

'Six months gone is too early to tell, I suppose.'

'Oh, Sam,' Felicity sighs, sounding weary. _'This_ is what I've been trying to decide whether or not to tell you.'

 _'Why?_ Isn't Anne alright? Is the baby alright?'

'Good gracious, _yes_ – your friend is _disgustingly_ healthy! But the thing is, Sam, one thing that I do remember _quite_ clearly from Glenda's party is that Mrs Woods said that her baby is due in February.'

'Yes.'

'Well – it isn't. If she doesn't have that baby before Christmas, I'll eat my hat. Probably in about a month,' Felicity adds.

'They were only _married_ on the eleventh of April,' Sam says abruptly after this sinks in.

'I know. Another thing that I can remember is her husband saying _that._ It does happen, you know.'

'I suppose that she might not have known yet – that early on, I mean.'

'That's _more_ than likely, in fact, although if the baby _is_ due a month from now she might have begun to suspect.'

'I don't like to think of them _having_ to marry. Especially so _young.'_

'It's most unlikely that she _knew_ that she's pregnant, and isn't it awfully hard to get a marriage license _that_ quickly?'

'You're right. There's absolutely _no_ point in worrying about it.'

'I agree. Well,' Felicity says, standing up, 'I'm going to bed.'

'You _really_ ought to ask Mrs Hardcastle about moving down to the first floor, Felicity! I can't _think_ why she hasn't been able to find someone new for Glenda's old room.' _Talking of Glenda,_ Sam thinks, but then recalls something else. 'Oh, I nearly forgot! Do you remember that article in _The Times_ about women in the American forces? It was a couple of months ago.'

Felicity looks at her blankly.

'It was the evening after Glenda's party, actually,' Sam reminds her.

' _That_ might explain a thing or two!'

'Well, I read it aloud, parts of it, and you wondered if any of them would serve in Britain, and whether we would meet any of them.'

'Oh, yes! I _do_ remember now!'

'I spoke with an American officer today,' Sam goes on. 'He's a friend of the man I work for. He said that they're _already_ here, and that there'll probably be some on the South Coast soon! So _that's_ something to look forward to! Who knows? Perhaps one of them will be billeted here!'

'Can you _imagine_ what Mrs Hardcastle would have to say about that?' Felicity asks, laughing.

Sam sits for a moment after Felicity has gone upstairs, thinking about Anne and Greville. _They're only twenty-one! I wonder when they began to..._

 _I wonder if it was only once._

For a moment she feels like a country vicar's daughter, so accustomed to being shielded from the world that she shields herself from it without realising that she's doing so, and constantly discovering that she is the last person to know what is happening before her very eyes.

 _I_ am _a country vicar's daughter_.

 _What on Earth draws a man like Andrew to a girl like me?_

 _Oh, well._ _One last thing to see to._

'Clive 27, please.'

'Putting you through now.'

'Thank you.'

'A.T.S. Clive Manor – _may_ I help you.'

'Good evening. This is Section Cadet Officer Miss Stewart, Hastings Area Command, Mechanised Transport Corps. I need to leave a message for Second Subaltern Lyle – I know that she's at her duty station tonight. Can you take down a fairly detailed message?'

'Yes, miss, go ahead, please.'

'I'm calling,' Sam begins, 'on behalf of the Hastings Police.'

* * *

 **Author's note:  
** "Not yet forty, and possibly closer to thirty": Despite the marvelous work of rosalindfan and other writers, I still find the idea of Rosalind Foyle having been born in 1902 – and thus having given birth to Andrew while still in her mid-teens – unworkable. Given Anthony Horowitz's own admission, in a Twitter exchange with TartanLioness, that the date we see on her headstone in "Enemy Fire" is an error, I feel comfortable in simply ignoring it.


	6. Chapter 6

The Wolseley's departure from the station is delayed while Brookie distributes poppies for Remembrance Day.

Along the way, Mr Foyle and Milner and Sam are obliged to stop and show their identification at four different Home Guard roadblocks.

'That's _twice_ as many as there were in April,' Sam points out.

Sam must make a detour over rough ground around a large crater left by one of the air-raids last month.

With all of this it is nearly 9.00 by the time they arrive in Hylton. There is silence in the car. Both Sam and Mr Foyle have been glancing repeatedly in the rear-view mirror although they attempt to conceal it. Milner, sitting in the back, is somber and tries to avoid looking out the of the windows. The Wheatsheaf is shuttered; Sam can find no way to avoid driving past the scorched cottage where Milner's friend died.

'I wouldn't normally ask you to do this, Sam,' Mr Foyle says, finally.

'To do what, sir? I'm always happy to help in any way that I can,' Sam replies.

'To sit in on an interview with, um, a male informant – unless he's a child,' Mr Foyle explains. 'We need to take a statement from Staff Sergeant Orloff, and one detail that Peters _did_ include in his report on the Wellington Road incident is that Orloff seemed – well, _uncomfortable_ discussing matters with the police. Since he's already _met_ you, and since we'll need to check _his_ description of Miss Beaux against _yours,_ I'd like you to be present – unless you have any objections.'

'None at _all,_ sir,' says Sam. 'Is Sergeant Orloff the only person... to be interviewed here today?'

'Let's take care of one item at a time, Sam, shall we?'

* * *

The Barrett farm has been completely transformed. Barracks, a control tower, a mess hall and several other buildings are visible from the gate. So are the old house and barn, both of them empty.

'Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle and Detective Sergeant Milner to see Captain Kieffer,' Sam announces to the soldier on guard duty. He has been standing at the wrong end of the gate, as if expecting that the driver would sit on the left-hand side, and must cross in front of the car in order to let her speak to him. He waves them through.

* * *

Captain Kieffer greets his visitors with a wary expression on his face.

'Welcome to U.S.A.A.F. Station 387,' he begins, adding, 'Why do I get the feeling this isn't a social call?'

'I'm sorry,' Foyle says. 'No one here is suspected of _any_ wrongdoing, I can assure you, but I'm afraid that I _do_ need to interview two of your men. Long story short, we're looking into a missing-persons case, there's some, um, conflicting information, and there _are_ indications that one or both of them _saw_ the missing woman at _more_ or less the time she disappeared. If you want to be present as their commanding officer, well, I've no objection to that.'

'All right. I've gotta tell you, though, Christopher, we're expecting to be _very_ busy here, _very_ soon.'

'I know. That's why I wanted to have done with this as soon as possible.'

'Who d'you need to talk to?'

'Staff Sergeant Ira Orloff, to begin with.'

* * *

'She was about the same height as me, maybe an inch shorter – or at least, that's what it _looked_ like. I didn't see what kinda _shoes_ she was wearing.'

Mr Foyle makes a noncommittal sound.

It occurs to Sam that Sergeant Orloff, though really not at all bad-looking, is in fact a rather short man, barely as tall as Sam herself.

 _Glenda,_ she reflects, _must have felt quite tall standing next to him. Whereas Robert towers over everyone._

'She had very straight dark hair,' Sergeant Orloff says, 'black hair, really, sorta shiny. And blue eyes, _bright_ blue, you don't see _that_ very often, or at least _I_ haven't. A pretty girl – _real_ skinny, though!'

'Miss Stewart, does that match _your_ recollections?' Mr Foyle asks.

'It does, sir.'

'Thank you. And did you notice anything else in particular about the injured woman, Sergeant?'

'She was kind of upset – _you'd_ be, too, I'll bet, if you'd fallen down a down a stone staircase! Not crying or anything, just worried about whether she'd broken a bone, I guess.'

'The incident report states that _you_ expressed the opinion that she might have been pushed.'

'Well, y'know, to _me_ – as an engineer, I mean – it looked like a really well-designed, well-built flight of steps,' Sergeant Orloff explains. 'There was even a bannister on each side – I noticed that! It just didn't look like it would be easy to fall down there by accident. I could be wrong, though. Maybe I just let my imagination run away with me,' he adds, smiling faintly.

'And when the ambulance brigade arrived, um, what happened?'

'That _was_ kinda strange, if ya ask _me._ They told her she sprained her wrist, I think. She hadn't broken anything, anyway, and she hadn't hit her head. But they wanted to take her to the hospital for an x-ray – better safe than sorry, is what they said. Well, she absolutely _wouldn't_ go with them! They gave up after a few minutes and just gave her a sling for her arm. That was that. She left. Went back _up_ the stairs, actually.'

'Ah. Thank you. Which wrist was it, do you recall?'

'I _don't_ remember _that,'_ the soldier admits after a moment. 'Sorry.'

'Do you recall her spelling out her name at any time – for the ambulance brigade or the constable?'

'Oh – no. Tell ya the truth, I can't even remember what her name _was.'_

'Anything else about her stick in your mind?'

'Lessee – yeah, you know what? She had kind of a foreign accent! That is, I mean, not the way people talk _here,'_ he goes on hurriedly. 'Like she was from somewhere where they don't even speak English. I really couldn't tell ya what _kind_ of accent it was, though.'

'And the, um, circumstances under which she was found – how did you happen to come upon her, and who was present?' Foyle asks.

Sam comes to attention, eyes front, looking at a point in the middle distance just above the top of Captain Kieffer's head and hoping that she hasn't moved too suddenly.

'Me and my girlfriend – she was my girlfriend _then_ – were taking a walk in that park, West something... '

'The West Hill Recreation Ground?' Milner offers.

'Yeah, that's it. Thanks. Anyway, we came to the top of that staircase and right away saw this girl at the bottom, kind of in a heap. It must have _just_ happened! So we went down the steps and asked if we could help her. _I_ wanted to call an ambulance right away, but Glenda insisted we _had_ to find a _cop_ first – um, no offence -'

'Yes, one moment, Sergeant.' Mr Foyle interjects. 'Could you identify the person you were with, please?'

'Warrant Officer Glenda Lyle – but actually I heard she was promoted since then.'

'Thank you. Please continue. _Did_ you find a constable?'

'Well... _we_ didn't. That is, we tried to make sure the girl was comfortable, told her we'd be right back, and walked toward the Parade. We started arguing about what to do – to be honest, we'd been arguing for most of the morning,' Orloff notes, looking a bit sheepish. 'There weren't many people around, so when we heard some people walking toward us, but from _behind,_ I guess we both jumped a little.'

'Mm. And did you ask them for assistance? Where to find a constable, for instance?'

'Well, we didn't need to _ask._ They sorta volunteered. The fact is, one of them was Miss Stewart, here. We'd already met a few times. It turned out she and Glenda are friends.'

'Who else was there?'

Out of a corner of her eye Sam sees Sergeant Orloff open his mouth to say something, close it again, look at Mr Foyle, then at her, then back at Mr Foyle.

'You heard the question, Sergeant,' Captain Kieffer says. 'Answer it.' His voice has a hint of puzzlement in it.

'A guy from the Royal Air Force,' Orloff says at last. 'An officer.'

'Thank you, Sergeant. No additional questions. You've been very helpful.'

Kieffer dismisses Orloff. He turns to Foyle as though to say something, but before he can begin Foyle turns to speak to his driver.

'Thank you, Sam. We'll see you at the car.'

'It was her _left_ wrist, sir,' Sam tells him.

'You're certain of that?'

'Absolutely, sir.'

'And _did_ she go up the steps?'

'Yes, sir.'

'All right, then – noted. We'll see you at the car,' Foyle repeats.

'Whatever you say, sir. _Sir,'_ Sam adds, saluting Captain Kieffer, and leaves.

'You still don't know who the R.A.F. guy was,' Kieffer points out to Foyle.

'I _do,_ in fact, and so does Sergeant Orloff – it was my son,' Foyle replies. 'Usually, _he's_ the one whose imagination runs away with him. Milner, see if Sam's out of earshot yet, would you?'

Milner leaves Kieffer's office, walks into an anteroom and peers down the passage, which is empty.

'Just having a look 'round,' he says pleasantly to a puzzled-looking private in the anteroom. 'I think she's cleared the building, sir,' he tells Mr Foyle.

'What _is_ this, Christopher?' Kieffer demands. 'You need to ask questions that aren't fit for mixed company?'

'No, not at all,' Foyle says pleasantly. 'I need to interview Corporal Joseph Farnetti.'

'O _kay,'_ says Kieffer after digesting this for a few seconds. 'It's all starting to become clear. Ah, to be young again!'

'Or not.'

'Thompson! Get Farnetti in here!'

* * *

'Well, that's that, then,' says Andrew.

'The shoe's dropped,' Chatto agrees, as they watch Palgrave retreating down the footpath. 'You were quite right, Andrew – this was _bound_ to happen.' They have discussed this possibility several times during the past month.

'What do you suppose we ought to do at this point? That _wasn't_ official, after all. Reliable, but not official.'

'No. I suppose that we need to wait for something in writing, or at least until we hear it from WingCo.'

Andrew nods in agreement.

'You don't happen to know what Palgrave's had a bee in his bonnet about lately, do you?' he enquires.

'I _do,_ in fact, but it isn't fit for discussion in a public place. Or at any rate _I_ don't consider it so – I know too many people who'd find it simply hilarious. Well, at least you got your chit for tonight, old chap,' Chatto adds with a smile. 'Good luck. I don't envy you, to be honest.'

* * *

Wednesday 11 November 1942

 _9.45am – Rather late night yesterday. Didn't have time to write any more._  
 _Was right about Plynlimmon Rd address. Returned there in pm w Milner – occupant, Mr Walter Saxby,_ _insisted_ _does_ _not_ _know Miss Beaux or anyone answering to her description but knew at once her name is French (not Bow). Also,_ _not_ _simple breaking-and-entering as thought – Mr S's driving license and passport taken. Called them useless – so did M. Can't help wondering about this.  
In any event Mr F and M now following up all leads re Miss B. Just sat in on interview w SSgt Ira Orloff – think they must be interviewing Joe now, but was sent to car w/out being told. Have decided to think Mr F kind to spare my feelings. In any case alerted Andrew and Glenda last night that they may need to assist.  
Mother and Dad arrived yesterday at Royal Vic – __complete __surprise_ _– had supper with them there. Went really quite well despite air-raid warning! Aunt Amy told me M and D both much changed – seems to be right, at least somewhat. Can't remember M especially_ _ever_ _in such high spirits. Both very curious about what I do – did not upset them I think. Also keen to meet Andrew, but asked lots of questions about his family tree. Actually not surprised by this, but still thought they'd have got over that sort of thing. War hasn't changed_ _everything_ _apparently. But D_ _very_ _excited that Mrs F was artist, and about her family's printing press.  
M and D must go back mid-day Thursday so tonight only time they can meet Andrew. Told him this last night – he will try to get pass. Said he is nervous about this. Think I am more so but tried to be encouraging. _

* * *

'Good to see you again, Mr. Foyle,' Joe offers.

'Well, possibly,' Foyle answers. 'Corporal, I ought to begin by telling you that you're under _no_ suspicion whatever of any sort of wrongdoing. Problem is, I need to ask you a question that will make it sound _very_ much as though you _were.'_

'I understand. Go right ahead, sir.'

'Where were you on the evening of 5th September? That was a Saturday, if it helps,' Foyle adds.

'Yeah, thanks! I went to the movies – at the Ruby.'

'What did you see?'

 _'Ball of Fire.'_

'Go on your own?'

'Oh – no, sir. I was with a young lady,' Corporal Farnetti explains.

'What was her name?'

'Augusta Bell.'

The conversation halts for an instant. Milner looks at Mr Foyle, ready for his superior to conclude the interview.

'B-e-double-l?' Mr Foyle asks evenly.

'Yes, sir.'

'Can you describe her for us, please?'

'A couple of inches shorter than me – about so tall,' Farnetti begins, standing up and indicating a point just above his eyebrows and then sitting down again. 'Blue eyes – really _bright_ blue – black hair. Straight hair, nor really long or short. Beautiful, really – different from – um, but anyway, a beautiful girl, although I kept thinking that if my mom saw her, she'd want to give her something to eat right away!'

'Thank you, Corporal.' Foyle and Milner exchange a glance.

'How did you happen to meet Miss Bell?' Foyle asks.

'It was the night before we went out – September 4th. I'd been promoted during the week, and on Friday night some of the guys took me out to celebrate.'

'Go a pub?'

'I've never figured those places out, sir, to tell you the truth. No, we went to the bar at the Majestic Hotel. And there was this girl there – by herself. I was thinking some guy musta stood her up. Her arm was in a sling, too. Anyway, that was Miss Bell. We got to talking, she seemed nice, and I asked her out.'

'Which arm?'

'Left. She said it was a sprain.'

'Have you seen her since the fifth?'

'Only once, a week later. We went dancing in St Leonards – a place called the Marine Assembly Room – _she_ suggested it. Her arm was better by then.'

'And you've had no contact at all with her since then?'

'No, I haven't heard from her at all. Nobody ever answers the phone at the number she gave me. I actually stopped trying a few weeks ago. Seems like I'm not having much luck with the girls in your country, Mr. Foyle!'

'You wouldn't remember that number off the top of your head, would you?' Foyle continues, ignoring this.

Corporal Farnetti rummages in one of his pockets, pulls out a small address book and leafs through it.

'Ore 428,' he announces.

'Thank you. What did Miss Bell tell you about herself?'

Farnetti's face clouds slightly.

'Mr. Foyle,' he asks, 'Miss Bell isn't in any trouble, _is_ she?'

'You're not the one asking the questions here, Corporal,' Kieffer interjects.

'We don't know,' Foyle answers. 'What _did_ she tell you about herself?'

'She said that she's from Switzerland and she works for the Red Cross – as a courier, she told me.'

'Where in Switzerland?'

'Geneva.'

'Did she tell you her age?'

'Oh – no, sir, and I certainly wouldn't have asked a lady _that!'_

'I understand,' Foyle replies. 'Tell me, Corporal – how much of what she _did_ tell you did you believe?'

'I wasn't sure how much I _should_ believe, to tell you the truth, sir,' Joe admits. 'The thing is, there's a war going on here. Switzerland isn't in it, but a lot of different countries _are_ involved. In a way, there's more than two sides. Augusta said she worked for the Red Cross, but why would they send her _here?_ People were evacuated _from_ this part of England, not _to_ it. There's a P.O.W. camp near here, that's true, but would the Red Cross really send a _woman_ into a prison camp? Like I said, we're in a war. People _lie_ a lot in a war, or at least they don't always tell you the whole truth. I've learned a _lot_ about that in the past few months, and one of the things I've learned is that you can't always blame them for doing it. Half the time, whatever it is they're lying _about,_ they're just trying to stay alive, stay safe.'

There is complete silence in the room for several seconds.

'Thank you very much for your assistance, Corporal,' Foyle says at last. 'I believe that we have all of the information we need.'

* * *

Sam hears a rumbling sound – the sound of a motor, or perhaps more than one motor – behind her. The sound grows louder, and she twists about in her seat to see what is happening.

An American jeep, with several more behind it, has pulled up at the gate. Sam watches as the guard salutes the soldiers in first vehicle. Then she quickly puts her diary and pen into her haversack, places the haversack on the floor of the Wolseley, gets out of the car, and stands at attention facing the convoy.

Nine jeeps and trucks, carrying perhaps thirty men amongst them, drive into the yard.

* * *

'Out of curiosity, John,' Foyle asks after Farnetti has gone, 'what became of Mr Barrett?'

'He cleared out of here a while back,' Kieffer tells him. 'About two and a half months ago. Seeing _this_ happen,' he goes on, gesturing around him, 'really took it out of him, I think – I don't blame him, like I said when we got here. The requisition order gives the Army the right to use his house and barn and so on as long as we don't make any changes to them, but we didn't really _need_ them, and I didn't have the heart. The next C.O. here may see it differently. Mr. Barrett left an address in, aah, Wiltshire, now that I think about it – said he had family there. I can give that to you if you'd like.'

'Thanks – might be useful at some point.'

There is a knock at the door, which then bursts open to admit a slightly alarmed Private Thompson.

'Lieutenant Commander Alexander Hays, 10th Bombardment Wing, 8th Bomber Command, to see you, sir!'

* * *

 **Author's notes:  
** _Ball of Fire_ , a comedy directed by Howard Hawks from a screenplay by Charles Brackett and Billy Wilder, was released in the U.S. on December 31st, 1941 and in the U.K. on May 18th, 1942. Filming was completed in October 1941; not surprisingly, the war is entirely absent from the story.

The Marine Assembly Room, like the Ruby Cinema, is fictional.

The structure of the United States Army Air Force appears to have changed continually, and grown more and more complex, over the course of World War II. I have had to guess at how the airbase's new commanding officer would have been introduced in November 1942; any reader with better information is invited to contact me.


	7. Chapter 7

'I'm only wondering, sir, because it _is_ meant to be an aerodrome, after all,' Sam explains, 'so it seems odd that the men would arrive by ground transport – and so _few_ of them, at that.'

'The aeroplanes are coming later in the day, with the rest of the men, weather permitting, from what I understand,' Mr Foyle tells her, adding 'Keep that to yourself, please – both of you.'

'Oh, of _course,_ sir!'

Foyle turns further towards the back of the car to speak to Milner, who leans forward, listening.

'Some places like the Marine Assembly Room ask their patrons to sign a guest register, as a hotel would, so that they have a record in case of, um, any problems,' Mr Foyle says. 'Let's see whether we can confirm that those two were there on 12th September.'

'I can telephone the manager when we get back to the station, sir,' Milner replies. 'We're assuming that Josephine Beaux and Augusta Bell are the same person, then.'

Sam glances at the rear-view mirror for an instant.

'We are for the time _being,_ yes. If this _is_ just one person, then she's done a _rather_ amateurish job of choosing a pseudonym.'

'I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir,' Milner admits.

'In French the gender and number of an adjective must agree with the noun it modifies,' Foyle explains. _'Beau,_ b-e-a-u, is the masculine form of the French word for beautiful. To form the plural of _beau,_ you add an _x_ onto the end of the word. The feminine form of _beau,_ singular, is spelled b-e-double-l-e, which sounds exactly like the English word _bell._ I _don't_ know what the names Josephine and Augusta have to do with one another, though.'

'Might it have something to do with what they _mean,_ sir?' Sam asks. 'Josephine is a girl's version of Joseph, which means "God will add",' she goes on, before either of the men can respond. Her voice takes on a quoting tone. '"And she called his name Joseph; and said, the Lord shall add to me another son." Genesis 30:24. Augusta sounds as though it comes from Augustine – I don't know _what_ that name means.'

Apart from the sound of the engine, there is silence in the Wolseley for a few seconds.

'Milner, see if you can find out anything about that as well,' says Mr Foyle. 'Sam, yesterday you offered to contact Subaltern Lyle if needed. If you could do that today -'

'I left a message for her last night, sir.'

' _Oh._ Well. Thank you, Sam.'

'Not at all, sir.'

* * *

'For you, Miss Stewart,' Brookie announces, handing Sam the receiver.

'Samantha Stewart here,' Sam says after an instant's hesitation. _Better not 'Sam' today,_ she thinks. _Just in case._

'Sam! It's me,' she hears Andrew say. 'It's all fixed – with any luck at all I'll to be in town by 1800 hours.'

'Oh – wonderful!' _I_ hope _that it's wonderful, at least._

'And I thought of a place for us to meet,' Andrew goes on, wondering whether he sounds excited or merely as apprehensive as he feels. 'The Sea Board Café. It isn't licensed and the food's decent – or at least it was before the war. Nothing elaborate, mind you. But the point is that some people go there to play chess and so forth, so we ought to be able to sit there for as long as we like. The only thing is, Dad goes there sometimes – to play chess, in fact. I suppose there's a slight risk that we'll run into him, but we can cross that bridge if we come to it.'

'Where is it?'

'In William Lane, at the foot of the West Hill.'

'All right. Very good. I haven't spoken to my parents today – I had to go to work _awfully_ early – but I can telephone their hotel and leave a message.' Sam has been standing with her back to the waiting area, but turns part-way around when she hears the vestibule door opening. 'On second thought that _won't_ be necessary,' she announces. 'They've just walked in the door! Can you wait a moment, please, Andrew?'

 _'Only_ a moment – I need to go back to the classroom in a couple of minutes, Sam.'

'All right, then. Good morning!' Sam says, responding to her parents' greetings. 'What would you say to an early supper – half past six, perhaps – here in Hastings, a bit east of here – with Andrew?'

This is agreed to – 'The Sea Board Café, 1830,' Sam tells Andrew – a hurried good-bye is said, and more thorough salutations are exchanged.

'Mother, Dad, this is Sergeant Brooke – he joined us in April,' Sam explains.

'Very pleased to meet you, I'm sure, Mr and Mrs Stewart,' Brookie says. 'Miss Stewart has told me a great deal about you.'

This is a not strictly true; indeed, it is dangerously close to being a bald-faced lie, _if rather a kind one,_ Sam thinks.

'Miss Stewart mentioned you're staying at the Royal Vic,' he goes on. 'Did you get a taxi 'ere without too much trouble?'

'We _walked!'_ Sam's mother announces, sounding and looking, Sam thinks, immensely pleased with herself. She is bundled up against the chilly November air, a shawl wrapped around her coat, but her eyes sparkle and her cheeks glow in a way that Sam is sure that she's never seen before.

'That's wonderful, Mother!'

'I surprised my husband and even myself!' Mrs Stewart goes on.

'Perhaps we could find somewhere for you to sit down,' her husband suggests.

'I _don't_ know that I'm ready to _do_ so yet!'

* * *

'The Marine Ballroom _does_ keep a register, sir,' says Milner. 'Joseph Farnetti signed it on 12th September, but _not_ Augusta Bell. Perhaps he signed for both of them and thought his name would be sufficient. That might be how they do it in America.'

'Possible, I suppose,' Mr Foyle agrees.

'Mr Fuller also told me that I telephoned just in time. They only retain the registers for ten weeks before discarding them – or turning them in for salvage, these days. I suppose they don't have much space for storage. He's agreed to hold on to the register for the week of 7th September for a few more days, and if we want it, he says he'll hand it over to us.'

'Good idea. Have Sam run you over there this afternoon.'

'I will, sir,' Milner says. 'If you'd like, sir, I can also go to the Hastings Library and look into the question of the two Christian names. That isn't far from here – I can walk back to the station.'

'Yes – do that. You can send the register back here with Sam.'

* * *

Mr Foyle's door is shut and Milner isn't in his office, so after Sam, with Brookie's help, has shown her parents how the front desk operates she takes them to the kitchen and points out the two interview rooms and the evidence room. ('It's kept locked, of course, but there's a window in the door and you can look through that,' she tells them.) With a vague gesture she indicates where the cells are.

The canteen is closed before lunch and Mrs Threadgill shoos her out, so she takes her parents out into the yard to show them the police cars. She raises the Wolseley's bonnet and shows them the tools and first aid kit that she has learned to use and look after.

A distant low rumbling noise becomes audible.

'Whatever's _that?'_ Sam's father asks.

'It sounds like aeroplanes,' her mother replies in a slightly anxious voice. 'But I don't hear an alert, do you?'

'No,' says Sam. She looks towards the northwest and, for a second or two, holds her breath. 'They're not ours, but they are friendly,' she adds quietly.

'Ah! The troop movements that you referred to last night?' her father enquires.

Sam nods.

The sound becomes both louder and somehow narrower.

'Oh, look!' Sam exclaims.

Seven bombers, flying low in formation and marked with unfamiliar circles, stars and stripes, appear on the northwestern horizon heading in the direction of the Channel. The pair on each side peel back and execute about-turns; the other three pull forward, fly over Hastings, dip to the right nearly, but not quite, in unison and then turn back the way they came.

'A company of American sappers have been posted near here since April, out in the countryside,' Sam explains to her parents, who look stunned. 'They've built an aerodrome, and I believe that what we just saw is a greeting from the company who are about to replace them – I suppose it's a bomber squadron.'

'My goodness!' is all that Mr Stewart can say.

'The engineers will be leaving tomorrow, I imagine,' Sam continues. 'There'll be a parade when they do, with a reviewing stand that Mr Foyle is meant to be on. I'll need to drive him there.'

'And _we'll_ need to bear that in mind when we depart tomorrow,' Mr Stewart tells his wife. 'So, the Americans are here,' he adds, turning back to Sam.

'A small company, yes. I think that the new one will be quite a bit larger.'

'But if they're out in the country then _you_ won't have met any of them, Samantha,' Sam's mother says. Her voice might hold curiosity, a need for reassurance or both together.

 _There's no need for them to know_ _ **everything**_ _,_ Sam reminds herself.

'I _have_ been introduced to some of them, Mother, actually,' Sam replies evenly. 'They're not so _very_ terrible, really, most of them.'

'Miss Stewart!' Brookie is approaching from the station's rear entrance. 'Mr Foyle's looking for you.'

* * *

'Sam, I've just been informed that I'll need to be in Castle Street, where it meets the Parade, no later than half past ten tomorrow morning,' Mr Foyle announces.

'Absolutely, sir.'

'I'm _told,_ at least, that there'll be a place to leave the car. You can come with me to the reviewing stand if you care to – the Mechanised Transport Corps ought to be represented along with the rest of us, it seems to me.'

'Oh – thank you, sir!'

'In the meantime, I need you to drive Milner to St Leonards to collect a piece of evidence, then bring him back to Hastings, leave him at the Hastings Library and bring the evidence back to the station yourself.'

'Certainly, sir. Is it the Marine Ballroom register, sir?'

From just outside Foyle's office comes the sound of greetings being exchanged and introductions being made.

'Um, yes. Who's standing in the passage, Sam?'

'My parents, sir, and Milner, from the sound of it. I've been showing them 'round a bit – my parents, I mean, of course. I hope that you don't mind, sir.'

'Er – no, I suppose not. Ask them to come in here, would you, Sam?'

Sam has her mother's colouring, or at least her brown eyes, and they are roughly the same height, but apart from that they do not look alike. Mrs Stewart is more delicate-seeming than her daughter. Foyle can imagine that at one time she was a very beautiful woman, but life – three decades or so of marriage to a rural vicar, _and far too much grief, to judge from what Andrew said last night,_ he thinks – has worn something away.

'I was about to ask Mr Milner,' Mr Stewart is saying, 'what became of that lovely Berault _petite danseuse_ that was rescued from the bombed house.'

'Well, it became evidence in Austin Carmichael's trial -' Foyle begins.

'Yes, _shocking_ business, that. Such a betrayal of the trust placed in him!' Sam's father exclaims.

'- and then it was returned to its owner,' Foyle goes on. 'I suppose it's in Wales now, with the rest of Miss Whittington's collection.'

'Broken or not,' Milner notes. 'Is it possible to repair that sort of damage, Mr Stewart?'

'In _some_ instances, yes,' says Mr Stewart. 'Conservators do that sort of work. A highly specialized trade, very difficult in which to establish oneself – knowledge is often passed down from father to son.'

'Is that what _you_ wanted to do before you found your vocation, Dad?' Sam asks.

'Gracious no, my dear. _My_ youthful ambition was to be director of the National Gallery of Art... or perhaps the Tate.'

'I hope that you've been enjoying your visit,' Mr Foyle says.

'Oh, yes, it's been a very pleasant change of scene, in addition to a reassuring visit with our daughter, of course,' Sam's mother replies, adding, _'Very_ reassuring so _far.'_

'We're going to have an early supper at the Sea Board Café this evening, sir,' Sam puts in. She puts a faint emphasis on the first word and gives Mr Foyle a slightly pointed look that her parents, standing behind her, do not see. 'It was recommended to us as a good place to go for a long conversation.'

'Yes, it probably _would_ be good for that,' is all that Mr Foyle says in reply.

'Excuse me, please, ladies and gentlemen.' Brooke raps gently on the open door. 'Sorry to interrupt, but there's an A.T.S. officer 'ere – says she's come to give a statement.'

'Is it Glenda Lyle?' Sam asks.

'That's the very name she gave, Miss Stewart – Lyle.'

'All right, then. I'm afraid that we need to get back to work,' Mr Foyle announces. 'Sergeant, please show Subaltern Lyle to Interview Room A. Milner, I'll meet you there in a few minutes – you can pull those case files.'

Sam's parents say their good-byes and follow their daughter and Sergeant Brooke back to the waiting area. As they leave his office, Foyle picks up his telephone receiver and dials a three-digit number.

'Yes, hello – this is Christopher Foyle. ... Oh, as well as can be expected, I suppose. And yourself? ... Glad to hear it. Look, I'm _very_ sorry about this, but I'm going to have to beg off of our match tonight. Something's come up unexpectedly.'

* * *

'Mother, Dad – may I present Second Subaltern Glendora Lyle, 93rd Searchlight Regiment, Royal Artillery?'

'Oh, how _do_ you do?!' Glenda exclaims, her face lighting up. 'Sam's told me a _great_ deal about you both!' This, too, is not quite accurate, and much of what Sam _has_ said has taken the form of complaint, worry or both. 'How _lovely_ that you've come to see her! Has travelling become as difficult as everyone says? I haven't taken a journey anywhere since my troop was transferred here from London in February, and then we were _very_ lucky and got to sit in the guard's van.'

'Oh, I don't suppose that we had _too_ bad a time of it,' Mr Stewart replies. 'Samantha has told us about _you,_ as well. It is unnerving, to say the least, to think of women being placed so nearly in harm's way.'

Sam fights down a tiny bubble of anger – whether on Glenda's behalf, or her own, or both, she can't quite say – that has suddenly begun to rise to her throat.

'But I believe that I speak for everyone when I say that we are very grateful for your service, Subaltern,' her father goes on.

'Thank you, sir. I'm very glad to _be_ of service,' Glenda tells him.

* * *

'You really ought to be _resting,_ Glenda,' Sam chides her friend gently, after her parents have accepted Brookie's invitation to eat lunch in the canteen. ('It'll even be 'ot food today, this being Wednesday,' he tells them. 'They've been giving us cold collations on Tuesdays and Thursdays – fuel targets, y'know.') 'Weren't you on duty all night?'

'I'll rest later – I'm not on again until Friday. You know, Sam, I've given evidence before – in September, of course, to that constable. What was his name? Peters?'

'Yes.'

'And then once before that – about seven or eight years ago, I think – I witnessed a robbery, late at night, after a performance. But that was a constable as well. I've never spoken with detectives before, and I've never actually been _in_ a police station until today.' Glenda suddenly looks _very_ serious and, to Sam's surprise, even slightly anxious.

'Mr Foyle sometimes asks me to sit in when a woman is being interviewed. Would you like me to ask him if I could do that?' Sam offers, adding, _'I_ don't ask any questions in the interview, of course!'

'Oh! Yes, _could_ you?'

* * *

'Glenda is in the interview room now, sir,' Sam tells Mr Foyle. 'She asked if I might stay in the room while she gives her statement.'

Foyle hesitates.

'Wwelll, we've done that _before,_ that's true, but this is a bit different, _isn't_ it? You and she know each other.'

'That _is_ true, sir, and I was actually rather surprised when she asked me. Glenda's usually a rather _fearless_ sort of person – so it seems to me that she must be _quite_ nervous about this.'

'Mm. Very well, then.'

'Thank you, sir. I think that you'll find, sir, that Glenda takes a rather plain-spoken view of things that would make most other people cringe a bit,' Sam continues, 'and I ought to add that she's liable to make me seem a bit... _taciturn_ by comparison.'

 _'Does_ she. Thanks for the warning, Sam.'

* * *

 **Author's note:  
** William Lane is fictional. The building that was used as the exterior of the Sea Board Café in "Broken Souls" is in Taplow, Buckinghamshire, and faces a park-like area shielded from the street by very tall hedges – something that is briefly but clearly shown in canon. I haven't been able to find a direct equivalent in Hastings, so I'm improvising here.


	8. Chapter 8

Glenda's description of the discovery of Miss Beaux at the foot of the Wellington Road steps, of the aftermath of that discovery and of Miss Beaux herself contradicts nothing that Foyle and Milner have heard from Sergeant Orloff, Corporal Farnetti or Sam.

'Sam and your son, sir,' she states when asked who offered assistance, in the unvarnished way that Sam had described.

She remembers some things more clearly than her erstwhile beau did: that it was the woman's left wrist that was injured; that Miss Beaux went back up the steps to the recreation ground when the ambulance brigade departed. She adds an entirely new detail, as well.

'She had a rather lozenge-shaped face – a sort of a hexagon,' she explains. 'But she was very _slim,_ as I said. I wondered, actually, whether she'd been getting enough to eat – missing her rations, I mean! And it occurred to me that if she were better fed, her face would fill out and be rather round. That's a difficult sort of face to light.'

Sam, standing more or less at attention next to the door, struggles not to break into a smile or, worse, laughter at Mr Foyle and Milner's obvious puzzlement.

'Before the war began I was a theatrical lighting technician,' Glenda explains helpfully, evidently having seen the same thing that Sam has. 'I gather that it's also a difficult sort of face to photograph – for whatever _that_ may be worth. It tends to come out looking rather anonymous, from what I've seen.'

'Ah. Thank you,' Mr Foyle says. 'Now, our understanding is that you may have seen Miss Beaux again on the following Saturday evening.'

'I _may_ have,' Glenda repeats. 'I couldn't be completely sure at the time, which I _believe_ is what I told Sam -'

'She did, sir,' Sam interjects.

'- and I really _can't_ be absolutely certain now, _either.'_

'Understood,' Mr Foyle agrees. 'But can you tell us _where_ this happened, please, and what you _did_ see?'

'It was at the Ruby Cinema – in the foyer. I actually saw her _escort_ first,' Glenda goes on. 'I _did_ know who _he_ was.'

'Who was he?' Mr Foyle asks.

'Corporal Joseph Farnetti, from the American forces. I knew him because we were introduced earlier this year – at least twice, actually.'

Out of the corner of her eye Sam sees Milner glance in her direction. She does not move. He looks back at Glenda.

'And then you saw Miss Beaux in his company – or thought that you _might_ have seen her?'

'Yes, after he... ' Glenda trails off, frowning. 'You know, Mr Foyle, I'm afraid that I'm really much better at _drawing_ things of this sort, or making little _models_ of them, than I am at describing them in _words,'_ she says. She stands suddenly, her face lighting up. 'Ohh, I _have_ it! Sam, would you please come stand over _here?'_

Sam looks uncertainly at Mr Foyle, whose eyebrows are indeed raised, but who nods at her.

'Thank you,' says Glenda. 'Now, Sam, stand just like _this,_ please, with your left arm raised – yes, pretend that it's in a sling and look over _there,_ where I'm pointing. Yes, _exactly!_ And now if I might borrow Mr Milner, please.'

'Um, Subaltern,' Foyle begins.

'I'm going to _recreate_ for you _exactly_ what I saw that evening, Mr Foyle, and I need the sergeant to be Corporal Farnetti,' Glenda explains.

'Well – all right, do as she asks, Milner.'

'Thank you. Stand _here,_ please, Sergeant, _this_ way – that's right – and look there. No, not quite – just follow the line of my arm. Turn your head just a _bit_ more. That's it. Now hold quite still, please, both of you.'

She takes several steps back, until she is standing at one end of the interview table.

'Good. Now, Mr Foyle, if you'll please come stand _just_ where I'm standing now,' she says, getting out of his way as he does so, 'and look directly at them. What _you're_ seeing now is what _I_ saw when I first spotted them. I recognised Corporal Farnetti and I noticed that he was with a dark-haired girl with her left arm in a sling. After that a couple of people passed in front of me, which blocked my view, of course.'

Glenda walks back to where Sam and Milner are standing and begins to rearrange them. They are both trying very hard not to laugh.

'This will be over soon, I _promise,'_ she tells them. 'When I could see them again they'd changed their positions and were standing _this_ way,' she goes on, turning back to Mr Foyle. 'He was pointing at one of the entrances to the auditorium, and she had turned in that direction as well.'

'Oh, I see – so you could see the woman's profile at that point,' Foyle notes.

'Precisely. And I thought at _once_ that it looked like Miss Beaux. But that was the _most_ I saw of her face that night.'

Sam clears her throat gently.

'Oh! _So_ sorry! Demonstration over!' Glenda exclaims. 'Thank you all _so_ much!'

'Did you make any attempt to greet them?' Foyle asks after he, Milner and Glenda have returned to their seats and Sam has resumed her post by the door.

'No, I wasn't able. After that – and this was in the very next _instant_ – the chap I was with, who'd been queuing at the refreshments stand, came up behind me with what he's got for us, and I turned about to face him. By the time I turned back, Corporal Farnetti and, well, whomever the girl was were no longer there.'

'Did you see them again after the film?'

' _No,_ I'm afraid _not,_ sir. It was _quite_ a crowd!'

Foyle nods.

'Who was your companion?'

'Flight Lieutenant Robert Chatto, No. 605 Squadron, Training Command. He can confirm that we were there that evening, I'm sure, but I doubt that he saw the people we've been discussing,' says Glenda. 'And I don't suppose he'd have recognised them even if he had.'

'And what film did you see?'

'An American one – it was called _Ball of Fire.'_

Mr Foyle makes some notes, looks over those he already has, and nods.

'Thank you for your time, Subaltern Lyle. You've been most helpful – a _bit_ unconventional, perhaps, but very helpful even so.'

* * *

'That was _quite_ wonderful _,_ Glenda! I don't suppose that either Mr Foyle _or_ Milner has _ever_ taken a statement at _all_ like that one!' Sam exults.

'I hope that I didn't discommode your detectives _too_ much,' Glenda replies, giggling a bit, 'but I _have_ to say, Sam, I enjoyed every _second_ of that! I always seem to think of things in terms of angles and lines of sight. It really was the only way that I could have explained what I saw.'

'It was very effective, I think! And now you need to go back to quarters and have a rest. You look _awfully_ tired!'

'I know, and I _will_ – I promise! But there's another reason that I wanted to come here. There's something I need to discuss with you, Sam. Is there somewhere where we could go and chat?'

* * *

Sam and Glenda find Sam's parents just finishing up in the canteen.

'I think that we had better take our leave for the moment,' Mr Stewart says. 'We certainly don't want to be in the way of police business. We'll find our way to William Lane and see you at half past six, Samantha. _I_ had imagined visiting the Hastings Museum, but your mother fancies taking in a film.'

'Only because I haven't in such a long _time,'_ her mother explains, sounding slightly embarrassed. 'The cinema in Wick never reopened after places like that were allowed to do so, and we can't get to either Arundel or Littlehampton without the car.'

'Andrew and I saw an _awfully_ good picture on – over the week-end, I mean,' Sam offers. _'One of Our Aircraft is Missing._ It's at the DeLuxe. That isn't very far from here.'

'Oh, _I've_ been _quite_ wanting to see that!' Glenda says with enthusiasm.

'You _do_ know that it's about a bomber crew,' Sam cautions her.

'I _didn't_ say that I wanted to see it by _myself!'_

* * *

 _Half past three – Writing this in car again but don't really mind. In St Leonard's waiting for Milner outside Marine Assembly Room. Joe took Miss B here on 12 September apparently. Wondering whose idea it was – just up Marina from Royal Vic but awfully sad-looking place. As well, seems Miss B told J her name is_ _Augusta __Bell!_ _  
Everything arranged with Andrew – will meet Mother, Dad, and self at Sea Board Caf_ _é (new to me) at 6.30. M & D __walked_ _from Royal Vic to police station this am! Am_ _very_ _pleased with M, and_ _for_ _her –_ _quite_ _certain couldn't have done that three years ago! Ate lunch in canteen, left to go to pictures._ _  
_ _Glenda came to station to give statement re Miss B. Was nervous about it (quite surprising) so sat in with her. G staged_ _astonishing_ _demonstration – arranged Milner and me in tableau vivant of what she saw at Ruby. Think Mr F was truly_ _flabbergasted_ _– M possibly same!  
Ate lunch with G in canteen afterward. Told me someone from 93_ _rd_ _killed in action last month. Asked me to be her 'acting next of kin', so will be notified if anything happens to her. Girl who was doing this before grew up in foundling home w G. Not in forces_ _ _–_ was killed in air raid in June ___– G did not find out until September_! __So_ _admire G, but have to feel sorry for her at times like this – I complain about M & D but would be __much __worse_ _to have 'no relations with one's relations' (G's words)._ _ _At any rate have agreed to do this for her – gave me form to fill in.  
_ And ___of course G read nothing about friend's death in newspapers ___– not permitted to print any useful facts about air raids, only that one happened 'somewhere'!___

'Is it any nicer inside?' Sam asks Milner after he has settled into the passenger seat. He holds the register, a flat, square book, in his hands.

'It's definitely seen better days. I suppose it might be different when it's full of people dancing. Hold off a moment, please, Sam.' She had been about to press the starter button. 'I hope you won't be upset by my asking this,' he goes on.

'Not if I can be of any help.'

'Would you be able to identify Corporal Farnetti's handwriting if you saw it? Or at least his signature?'

'I'm not sure,' Sam admits. 'I only ever had one letter from him, and a card for my birthday.'

'Well, have a look at this, please,' Milner says, opening the register.

Each page is printed with two columns of rectangles, each one the right size and shape to contain a signature. Milner finds a section labeled _Saturday 12_ _th_ _September 1942_ and points to the top space in the second column, where _Joseph Farnetti_ is written.

'No,' Sam says firmly. 'I'm almost _certain_ of that. Actually, _my_ guess would be that this isn't a _man's_ hand at _all,'_ she adds.

'Really? Look at this.' Now Milner points to the bottom space in the same page's first column.

The name _Josephine Bell_ is written there.

'But that's in exactly the _same_ hand!' Sam exclaims.

'That was my reaction as well,' Milner tells her.

'And that's the _third_ name we've seen her use!'

' _If_ it's the same woman – but it's pretty clear that the woman Corporal Farnetti walked out with in September _was_ using at least two names. Sam, I need you to leave me at the Hastings Library. When you arrive back at the station, show this to Mr Foyle and tell him what you've just told me.'

* * *

'That's quite interesting,' Mr Foyle says after looking at the register in silence for a few moments. 'And this isn't Corporal Farnetti's signature, you say.'

'I don't _think_ so, sir, no,' Sam replies, 'but then I've only _seen_ his signature a couple of times. I can bring the letter and card he sent me to work tomorrow for comparison.'

Foyle looks up, trying without much success to hide his surprise.

'That would be very helpful, Sam. Thank you. You, um, you still have his letters, then?' he goes on.

'I doubt very much that _anyone_ in the Stewart family has _ever_ discarded a letter, sir,' she tells him. '"Be kind to your biographer or, failing that, to someone else's," as my Uncle Aubrey says.'

Foyle smiles a bit at this, but Sam has turned very serious indeed, seeming to understand what was behind his question.

'You know, sir, in April I did receive a letter that I _wanted_ to toss out,' she goes on, 'and I actually did _try_ to, but in the end I couldn't bring myself to do it. And I'm glad. There turned out to be... a great deal more _to_ that letter than met the eye. I still have it.'

Mr Foyle nods.

'Sam, I think that I may be staying here later than usual this evening, and I know that you have plans,' he announces, after another short silence. 'If you'd like to leave for the day, well, that would be all right.'

'Thank you very much, sir.'

'Good luck,' he adds as she leaves the room.

* * *

 _5.00pm – Mr F sent me home early – knows Andrew to meet M & D this evening.  
Marine Assembly Room register for date in question has J's name but don't believe it is his signature – clearly feminine hand. Name __Josephine __Bell_ _appears in previous slot in_ _same_ _hand! Told Mr F I will bring J's letters to work tomorrow for comparison. (Must remember to actually_ _do_ _this.)  
Wondered in Sept. if Miss B is SOE. (Or some __other_ _sort of spy!) Occurred to me on way home documents stolen from 14 Plynlimmon Rd aren't 'useless' (as Milner said) for absolutely everyone. Would be useful for spy needing to travel.  
Still feel nervous about telling Mr F any of this. Possibly better tell Milner first. Or Andrew.  
If Miss B __is_ _SOE, why was she in Hastings?  
Must stop scribbling and make myself presentable._

* * *

Andrew arrives at home at exactly 1745 hours and leaves the house again only fifteen minutes later, his father having warned him of what he already knows: his eyes will grow used to the light indoors much more quickly than they will to the darkness outside.

 _Dad's right,_ he thinks. No matter how many times he comes home he's surprised at how bloody _dark_ the narrow streets of Old Town are in the blackout, especially on nights like this, with what little moon there is hidden behind a bank of clouds. He waits for several seconds on the top step. Then he pulls his torch out of his kit bag, carefully points it downward, switches it on and sets out.

As he walks towards the bottom of Steep Lane Andrew recalls why the street has that name and begins to wonder if he has left himself enough time. Even so, he stops for a few seconds opposite the entrance to the St Clement's burial ground. He has not done this since the day before he sat his Oxford entrance exam.

 _Don't be daft,_ he chides himself.

Still.

 _You'd have liked her, Mum, you really would have._

 _I need her parents to like me. Wish me luck._

As Steep Lane meets Hill Street, it occurs to Andrew that he hasn't visited the Sea Board Café since before he went up to Oxford. _I wonder if it's changed at all,_ he thinks, and has a sudden unhappy vision of boards over the windows, peeling paint and stale food.

 _Dad goes there,_ he reminds himself. _He'd have said something._

 _Everything will be all right,_ he tells himself a bit sternly.

 _Will they be able to find the place?_

* * *

People are going home for the night or out for the evening; the eerie – _really rather beautiful, though,_ Andrew thinks – blue glow of luminous buttons and disc pins and flowers floats through the streets, along with the white bits and bobs that people are advised to wear; he has his white flying scarf. And ahead of him in William Lane he sees a few people going into the café.

The place is almost exactly as Andrew remembers it, looking only faintly wearier than it did in 1936. A waitress comes forward to take his cap and greatcoat as Andrew closes the door behind him. He is only slightly late; it is 1832 hours.

'Good evening,' he says. 'Thank you. I'm to meet some people here.'

'If one of them's a vicar, they've already got here,' the woman answers, gesturing towards a rear corner of the room.

Sure enough. A white-haired, bespectacled man in a dog-collar has risen half-way out of his seat at a table for four near the back that he shares with a slightly fragile-looking woman who has something like Sam's eyes.

Sam herself, though, is nowhere to be seen.


	9. Chapter 9

_Nothing for it,_ Andrew thinks, and then in a burst of inspiration tells himself, _Call her Samantha, not Sam._

'Mr and Mrs Stewart?' he asks when her reaches their table. 'How do you do? I'm Andrew Foyle.' He wonders whether his voice is shaking. 'I've been looking forward to meeting you.'

A half-truth at best. _I'd rather take on three Messerschmidts and a Dornier with no back-up._

'Where is – um, where is Samantha?' Andrew goes on.

'My husband and I have been wondering _much_ the same thing,' Mrs Stewart replies irritably.

'Please do sit down, Flight Lieutenant,' Mr Stewart says, 'and we can _all_ wait for her together.'

Andrew had decided on his way from the base the first thing that he would say to Sam's parents, but he had imagined saying it in her hearing. Now he is left struggling to come up with some chit-chat.

Mr Stewart, he knows, has been to Hastings at least once before – in 1940, intending to snatch Sam away just a day or two after she and Andrew had met.

'Is this your first visit to Hastings, Mrs Stewart?' he enquires.

'It is,' she replies. 'I come from Cambridge – not so _very_ far away, but I don't think that I had been any farther south than London before my husband took up his curacy in Brighton.'

A thought comes to Andrew uninvited: _One buried in Cambridge, two in Brighton, three in Lyminster. That_ isn't _Sam's fault and she_ oughtn't _to have been made to pay for it!_

 _Think of something else to say, you bleeding idiot!_

'I hope that you're both enjoying your visit here,' Andrew continues.

'Oh – yes,' says Sam's mother with an offhand air, as though the question had never occurred to her before this moment.

'Did you have much trouble finding this place? After I suggested it to Samantha this morning I, um, I began to doubt my judgement. It's a bit tucked away, after all, and I've not been here in quite some time.'

'Oh, no, not at all, Flight Lieutenant – we found a _very_ well-informed taxi driver!' Sam's mother explains. 'I _wonder_ whether Samantha would benefit from that fellow's _help,'_ she adds.

'I doubt very much that she's got lost, Mrs Stewart,' Andrew tells her. 'She's an excellent map reader and navigator. My father and his sergeant rely on her for that, amongst other things.'

' _Do_ they,' Mrs Stewart answers dryly, adding, 'This is _quite_ a charming place, regardless.'

'Yes, indeed,' Mr Stewart agrees. 'We could do with an establishment of this sort in Lyminster. We've no gathering place there other than the public house – and the church, of course.'

All three of them fall silent. _There's nothing for it,_ Andrew thinks again.

'You must both be terribly -'

' _Ah!_ At _last!'_ Mrs Stewart exclaims. She is seated facing the door, which has just opened to admit Sam.

'Please excuse me,' says Andrew, rising to his feet. In four strides he reaches the front of the room, where Sam is giving her coat to the waitress.

Sam's parents watch as Flight Lieutenant Foyle speaks to their daughter, then takes her hand and kisses her – chastely enough, on the cheek, but they both notice the blissful look that passes across her face as she receives and returns his greeting. They cannot hear the young people's conversation, but they can see its easy intimacy, a suggestion that exchanging confidences has become habitual for them, as well as a faint air of urgency. As they begin to move towards the table Samantha says something into the airman's ear, whispering no doubt; he replies with a broad smile and an appearance of reassuring her.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'Thank God you're here, my darling,' Andrew says, taking her hand. 'I was running out of idle conversation.'

He kisses her cheek, conscious that her parents are watching them; she kisses his cheek in turn.

'Are they _very_ annoyed that I'm late?' she asks nervously.

'Well, they're not immensely _pleased,_ I'd say. It's _my_ fault, Sam – I ought to have thought of a place in George Street or the High Street.'

'This _is_ awfully nice, though,' says Sam, glancing about. 'In any event it's the _war's_ fault – it's dark as pitch outside, and of course all the road signs are gone.'

They have loosed their hands, and Andrew is about to turn back towards the table where Sam's parents are waiting for them when he feels her hand on his sleeve.

'I wanted to warn you about one thing,' she whispers. 'I've never told them about Joe.'

'Why on Earth would I dredge _that_ up?' Andrew asks her, quietly and with a smile, sounding as though it were something so ancient and trivial that it couldn't possibly be of interest to anyone now.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'Here we are,' Andrew tells Sam's parents in his most reassuring voice, as he and Sam approach the table.

'I'm so _very_ sorry, Dad, Mother,' says Sam, bending to kiss each of their cheeks in turn, as she'd done last night. 'I'm afraid I got a bit _lost_ on my way – it's difficult with no road signs.'

' _I'm_ to blame for that, really,' Andrew says again. 'I ought to have known that Sam's had no reason to visit William Lane until now. Only _law-abiding_ people live in this street.'

No sooner are the words out of his mouth than Andrew realises that Sam's parents are far more likely to find this alarming than amusing, and indeed neither one of them so much as smiles.

'What I was about to say when Samantha arrived, though,' he continues, 'is that I can imagine how tremendously _proud_ of her you both must be. I know that _I_ am.'

* * *

'And then after I got my wings I was sent back here, to Hastings,' Andrew is explaining. 'There was a shortage of both quarters and billets so it was agreed that I'd live with my father for the time being. It was a long journey and I was only able to get as far as London before the blackout began. Fortunately my uncle and aunt had offered to put me up for the night.'

The waitress offers them a choice of Woolton Pie ('We do it quite special here,' she promises) or lentil sausages, and tonic water or what she refers to as lemonade.

'This is your uncle at the Admiralty, I take it?' Sam's father.

'Yes – he's my only uncle, as it happens. We're quite a small family, really.'

'I understand that Sir Andrew Howard was your grandfather,' Mr Stewart goes on.

'Oh! Well, yes! He's still alive, in fact, though he's grown quite frail and doesn't always recognise people or remember things. He was evacuated to the Cotswolds when the war began.'

'Ah. The history of art reproduction was one of my topics at university,' Mr Stewart explains, 'so I became quite familiar with Howard & Co.'s work. The loss of the company must have been very difficult for him.'

'I'm _sure_ that it was... particularly coming so quickly after, um – after my mother's death,' says Andrew.

'Yes – I _am_ sorry.'

'Thank you.'

Silence falls. Consoling the bereaved has never been either of her parents' strongest point, Sam knows. One would think that it _would_ be, she has often thought, but their own excess of bereavements seems at times to have wrung them dry.

'And your uncle,' her father continues. 'Does he have a family of his own?'

'Well, aside from my aunt, there's my cousin Alan, who just began the Royal Naval College, and my girl cousin, Averill – she's still at school,' Andrew replies. 'At any rate, on my way to their house I ran into a... um, an acquaintance who as it turned out was going to be motoring to Hastings the following morning. He offered me a ride. The only snag was that he needed to collect me _very_ early – 430 hours! There was no chance to eat beforehand, and by the time he dropped me at my father's door I was ravenous. It was just after dawn, so I let myself into the house as quietly as I could and went about getting some breakfast. Apparently I was rather noisy despite my best efforts, and in the process I not only woke my father – by _accident,_ please understand – but managed to make him think that I was a prowler as well! Once we'd got _that_ point cleared up we had a fairly pleasant time of it.'

 _Not entirely true, of course – we discussed some pretty serious stuff,_ he thinks – but this time Sam's parents laugh.

'And then there was a knock at the door,' Andrew goes on. 'My father asked me to answer and said it was his driver. That's _exactly_ how he put it, in fact – "It's my driver." And when I opened the door Samantha was standing there, in uniform, self-possession personified. I'm not sure who or _what_ I'd been expecting to see, but _this_ came as a _complete_ surprise! Samantha said, "You must be Andrew," and I... well, I began _babbling,_ really.'

Sam smiles, looks at each of her parents in turn and back at Andrew, and gazes downward for an instant remembering that first encounter, the strangeness of it, her sudden absolute certainty that something earth-shattering would happen if she were not _extremely_ careful to hold herself in check.

'Truthfully, I don't recall _what_ I said to your daughter,' Andrew is saying, 'other than it being something intended to, um, to impress her, but I can remember Samantha saying that it was just as well that she'd spent more time with policemen than with pilots, and that she had been hoping to cook or knit for the war effort, but that _that_ plan hadn't come to anything.'

By now all three Stewarts are laughing. Andrew feels the tension inside himself start to uncoil.

'And _that_ really was _all_ that was needed,' Andrew continues, 'although I was far too dazzled by myself at the time to understand what had just happened. I ought to say, really, that it was all that _I_ needed. Samantha was _far_ from convinced about _me,_ I think. We met again just a few days afterwards and she simply ignored me. And the _next_ time that we crossed paths -'

Sam is suddenly on the alert once again. She clears her throat, and Andrew, who has shifted his chair so that he can sit as close to Sam as the square table will allow, breaks off speaking and turns to look at her.

 _'Yes._ Well,' he resumes. 'The next time that we crossed paths, which was about three weeks later, it turned out that I had stumbled into a police investigation, which I ended up learning _far_ more about than I was meant to know – and which neither one of us is free to discuss. I _can_ tell you, however, that Samantha dealt with everything _quite_ brilliantly, including my poorly-timed outburst of enthusiasm at seeing her again. I'm sorry,' he adds, seeing that Sam's parents have grown more somber. 'We've had to become accustomed, _both_ of us, to hearing a good deal of privileged information.'

'Didn't I say as much last evening?' Sam's mother asks her husband. 'And how did it come to pass,' she continues, turning to Sam, 'that you... took up together?'

Sam turns to look at Andrew, her mother's question leaving her slightly at a loss. It had all happened with such dizzying speed: having to revise her opinion of him, and to admit to herself at last that she had been drawn to him from the start, after the change in his behaviour towards her.

In spite of Andrew's best efforts he and Sam aren't sitting close enough to one another that he can take her hand discreetly. As a stop-gap he moves his right leg very slowly to the side, gliding his foot along the floor until it rests against her left one.

'That came about,' he begins, 'partly because Samantha is both _very_ kindhearted _and_ an indispensable member of the team at the Hastings Police, and partly because... well, my luck ran out a bit. This happened a bit more than two years ago, at the beginning of October 1940. I was on my way back from an op – nothing out of the ordinary, but there was terrible fog, there seemed to be absolutely _nowhere_ to land, and I finally ran out of fuel and crashed into the Channel. It wasn't _nearly_ as bad as it might have been,' he goes on hurriedly. 'I had some cuts and bruises and my right arm was broken, but that was all. And I was given a week's crash leave, so I went home – I was quartered at R.A.F. Hastings by that time.'

'Only a week? _Surely_ the R.A.F. are aware that a broken bone can't heal in such a short time!' Mr Stewart exclaims. 'Even _I_ know that!'

'You're quite right, Mr Stewart, but that's the length of a standard crash leave – unless the patient is bedridden, I suppose,' Andrew explains. 'Even if you can't fly, there are other things that you _can_ do. In any event, the only thing _badly_ hurt was my pride, and having time on my hands was perhaps not much help with that. I neglected to say just now,' he adds, becoming more serious, 'that two friends of mine had been killed in action during the previous month – both shot down. I, on the other hand, was _slightly_ injured because I'd got _lost.'_

'Something that could hardly have been prevented under the circumstances, from the sound of it,' Mr Stewart interjects.

'That's very kind of you, Mr Stewart. In any event, I could think of nothing better to do than to sit about _moping,_ as _more_ than one person put it,' he continues, glancing at Sam – something that he has been doing with considerable frequency even as he speaks to her parents, as both of them have noticed. She laughs softly in response.

The young people tell the story of their disastrous trip to the Pavilion: Mr Foyle's early-morning request to Sam that she get Andrew out of the house later that day; her attempts to make conversation over the dreadful tea they were served, for which Andrew hadn't had any appetite in the first place; and his realisation that his father had asked her to do this, 'which did nothing to improve my mood,' he recalls.

'Andrew _did_ insist on paying for tea,' Sam notes.

Both of them burst out laughing at this private joke and, perhaps forgetting for a moment that they are in a public place, they join hands beneath the table.

'What I did, I'm afraid,' Andrew continues, once they have subsided, 'was to fling some money onto the table, announce that I would get home on my own steam, and stalk off.'

'And what did _you_ do after _that?'_ Mrs Stewart asks Sam.

'I finished my tea, even though it really was _horrid,_ and took the car back to Police headquarters. And Mr Foyle asked how things had gone. I'm sure that he would have done that in _any_ case, but I _was_ upset and I suppose that it showed on my face.'

'And when my father came home he quite rightly gave me a piece of his mind,' Andrew recalls. 'The worst of it was, it hadn't even occurred to me that Samantha _would_ be upset – still quite taken with myself, you see, _and_ wallowing in self-pity at the time. Well – the next day I went and found Samantha and apologised,' he goes on before either of Sam's parents can say anything about this, 'and I asked her to come with me to the cinema that evening.'

He can hear his voice shaking again, very faintly, but he presses on.

'And for some reason she accepted both the apology and the invitation, and after the film I walked her home and we started talking about one thing and another – and that was when I realized, Mr and Mrs Stewart, that I had been in love with your daughter the entire time, as I still am.'

 _There,_ he thinks, _I've said it in front of them._ He feels a bit out of breath, as though he had just taken the footpath up the West Hill at a run.

Sam, who had loosed Andrew's hand, takes hold of it again.

She remembers dimly that her mother had wanted to see a film that afternoon, that she had recommended the one that she and Andrew had seen on Sunday and that she ought to ask her parents if they enjoyed it.

Before she can say anything at all the waitress returns to take away the dishes of Woolton Pie – it isn't at all bad, just as she had promised – and announce that there is chocolate cake this evening.

'Actual _cake,_ or the uncooked simulacrum that one sees nowadays?' Sam's mother asks.

'Oh, no, madam, we bake it right here, we do.'

Mr Stewart is the first to speak once the cake has been requested.

'And what do you intend to do with yourself after the war, Flight Lieutenant?'

There is silence around the table for a second or two. It occurs to Sam that this is really the same thing that her father had started to ask last night – 'What was he doing before the war? Was he already in the R.A.F. at that time?' – only now he has put it a bit more directly.

Mrs Stewart, who had restrained her husband from pursuing this question then, perhaps understanding its implications better than he did or does, seems to Sam to be on the verge of doing so once more, but Andrew replies before she can speak.

'Well, that's a very interesting question,' he begins. 'I, um, I have the honour to be a junior fellow of St George's College, Oxford – I read law there and for some reason they invited me to stay. That was in 1939, and of course the war broke out a few weeks later.'

'That must have created quite a distraction, understandably,' says Sam's father.

'Very true. St George's emptied out pretty quickly – all of the colleges did. For my part... well, when I was a little boy I used to look up and point at the sky whenever I heard the sound of an aeroplane passing overhead... '

 _How to explain this?_ Once he'd started school aeroplanes had been replaced by other enthusiasms; the idea of flying one as crew or pilot hadn't even occurred to him until '39. It had become clear by then that he would have to do his duty pretty soon, and somehow the R.A.F. had seemed less unendurable than the Army or – _pace_ Uncle Charles – the Navy. Best, then, to secure a place in it while he still could.

' ...and I suppose that I decided that I was being presented with an opportunity, so I joined the R.A.F. Volunteer Reserve and learned basic flight operations with them. When I got my orders – that was the following May – I decided to go in for pilot training... well, and here I am.'

'Indeed. What sort of aeroplanes do you fly, Flight Lieutentant?'

'Spitfires – though of course I'm not actually flying at present.'

'Mm. And when the war is over you'll still be a fellow of St George's, ah, Oxford,' Mr Stewart observes.

'That's true as well, and making plans for after the war is certainly a very happy thing to do,' Andrew replies carefully, 'but – with respect – such plans must be entirely theoretical, I believe.'

'Even for someone in as placid an assignment as Training Command?'

'Point taken, Mr Stewart, but _no_ assignment can be assumed to be permanent. I've been in Training Command for twenty months now, which is a pretty long stretch. And we ought to remember,' Andrew goes on, 'that the... _focus_ of the war is liable to shift in ways that we can't predict, any more than we can predict its length or its outcome. My point, though, is that the war _won't_ be over, um, within the foreseeable future.'

Mrs Stewart rises to her feet.

'I believe that I shall go in search of the cloakroom before I enjoy my cake,' she announces.

Sam recognises her mother's tone of voice as a summons.

'That's an excellent idea, Mother,' she says. 'I'll go with you.'

* * *

 **Author's notes:  
** This chapter has been revised slightly since I originally posted it.

I haven't tried them, but for whatever it may be worth there are recipes for lentil sausages and both baked and unbaked wartime chocolate cake at the website _The 1940s Experiment,_ among other places.

My ideas about Andrew's age, and the implications of this for his possible level of educational attainment at the beginning of the war, can be found in the notes to Chapter 12 of _Fires Within Fires._

St George's College, Oxford, is the creation of Sarah Caudwell, author of the four Prof. Hilary Tamar detective novels, which I highly recommend.


	10. Chapter 10

'That dress is quite becoming to you, Samantha. I don't believe that I've seen it before,' Mrs Stewart comments.

'Thank you, Mother. No, you haven't – I got it after I lost all those things at Mrs Harrison's.'

'Oh, dear – yes.'

Sam had agonised over what to wear for this evening out; truthfully, she was late partly because of that. Andrew _has_ seen this dress – very dark blue, almost black, with lighter blue cuffs and a matching tie at the neckline – but by now he has seen every dress that she has, and her parents seemed likely to approve of this one. She prefers her old red coat to the new tartan, but it has become so threadbare that she chose the new one even so. Her hat – a hat would be essential, she had known – is an old blue beret that she found at the All Saints' jumble sale, to which she has added a luminous flower.

'Is that a new suit, Mother?'

'Yes and no. My old fawn-coloured serge finally fell to bits, and... well, do you remember Mr Clark, in Warningcamp?'

'Of course! How is he?'

'In a better place, one hopes,' Mrs Stewart answers with a sigh. 'He was killed in action in North Africa in May.'

'Oh, _no!_ I'm so sorry!'

'And Mrs Clark – one never knows whether to admire her resourcefulness or be appalled by her _sang-froid_ – she _promptly_ offered to make over one of his old suits for me. Not quite in my usual line, is it?' Sam's mother asks with a glint of amusement.

'No, I suppose that it isn't,' Sam admits. Banker's grey flannel with a very faint white stripe and no trimmings of any kind, to say nothing of such a severe cut, are not what she is accustomed to seeing her mother wear. 'It's _quite_ smart, though.'

* * *

'How did you come to read law, Flight Lieutenant?' Mr Stewart asks, and then goes on, 'I apologise if the question seems abrupt, but I've often been curious about this. I wonder how one chooses it without having the example of attorneys in one's own family.'

'Well, in my case, it was the idea of some of my schoolmasters. I had other notions at that point, particularly given that, to be completely honest, I've never had any interest in actually _practicing_ law. _I_ wanted to do modern history – um, that's the term that's used at Oxford for history since the fall of the Western Roman Empire.'

'So I'm told.'

'However, I'm the first in my family to have gone to university and I think that some of the staff at Hastings Grammar School felt that, that being the case, I ought to choose something... practical, I suppose. Someone argued that one way to see history is as the history of law, and of changes in the law and the effects of those changes on society, and I think that there is some truth in that, really, and so it was decided. The trouble with a law degree, of course, is that it's not good for very much all by itself. There are two or three years of training to be got through afterwards, if you want to be a lawyer. Either that or you can be a scholar.'

Andrew has become uncomfortably aware of how much talking he has been doing, but Sam's father keeps asking questions.

'And your choice of... institution?'

'Hastings Grammar School is a nest of old Oxonians, I'm afraid, including several St George's men.'

'Ah. I see,' Mr Stewart says. 'And what field of law interests you as a scholar?' he adds after a silence.

'Well, copyright law, to begin with.'

'Indeed? That's _most_ interesting! Samantha tells us that you're a poet.'

'Samantha flatters me,' Andrew replies after another silence.

* * *

'That's a very personable young man that you've attached yourself to, Samantha,' Mrs Stewart begins.

'I'm very glad that you think so, Mother,' Sam answers her, although she wishes at once that her mother had chosen another turn of phrase. 'I love him,' she adds, a bit solemnly.

'So you've told us. Clearly he is also _very_ much in love with you – something which you are likely to find will become a problem eventually.'

The unease that Sam has been feeling for the past few minutes narrows into a sharp pinprick of irritation.

'Mother, Andrew and I have done _nothing_ -'

 _'That_ does not even bear _mentioning,_ Samantha,' her mother interjects, her voice becoming slightly shrill. 'It goes without saying that your father and I expect that you will comport yourself _at all times_ in accordance with the Christian upbringing that we have done our _best_ to give you. But that _isn't_ what I mean. Flight Lieutenant Foyle thinks that you're some sort of warrior angel,' she continues, 'and he'll be in for a rude shock when you turn out _not_ to be. Such fantasies are _very_ common in men,' she goes on before Sam can reply. 'Your father used to think that I was the Countess of Bedford.'

'I'm _sorry?'_

'Lucy Russell, _née_ Hartington, wife of the third Earl of Bedford. A lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth during the last years of her reign, reputedly a great beauty, and without question one of the most important patronesses of the arts England had at that time – the dedicatee of a great _flood_ of works,' Mrs Stewart explains. 'There's an Isaac Oliver portrait miniature of her, or at any rate it _may_ be of her. Your father wrote an essay about it for your grandfather. It was in a private collection at some ungetatable place in Scotland in those days, but your father went to look at it anyway. It's just gone into the Fitzwilliam Museum, as it happens.'

'Dad must be _awfully_ pleased about that!'

'He is. We debated a bit, in fact, about the relative merits of going up to Cambridge to see _it_ – amongst other things – or coming _here_ to see _you._ At any rate, inevitably the time came when your father discovered that I was only a commonplace don's daughter. Fortunately, being the man that he is, he was not put off. It remains to be seen whether your airman is made of the same stuff.'

'And _you_ think that he _won't_ be,' Sam replies, with some heat.

'I said _no_ such thing, Samantha – _only_ that we shall have to wait and see.'

* * *

'I'll spare you the ordeal, Flight Lieutenant Foyle, of being asked about your intentions towards my daughter,' Mr Stewart goes on.

'They are _entirely_ honourable,' Andrew begins, and then breaks off.

For the first time since yesterday afternoon he finds himself thinking neither about Sam's parents nor about Sam and her parents as a family but solely of Sam herself. All at once he feels a rush of confidence and even certainty, as though he had been stumbling about in a darkened room that was now, suddenly, flooded with daylight.

'When I try to speak about Samantha I still find myself babbling at times, Mr Stewart,' he goes on. 'But my intentions are entirely honourable as well as absolutely serious.' _Yes,_ he thinks. 'It's difficult at present to... act on one's wishes – or it seems that way to _me,_ at any rate.' _The war_ _didn't stop Greville,_ he reminds himself. 'It's very strange – I feel constrained by the war, and at the same time I'm, um, I'm _grateful_ for it! Without this war, I would never have met Samantha – without that _and_ your and Mrs Stewart's willingness to allow her to join the war effort as early as she did, and in just the _way_ that she did, and I'm very grateful for that as well.'

Mr Stewart nods in understanding.

'I do take your point about the times we're living through, Flight Lieutenant,' he says. 'Indeed, if I had _any_ advice to offer, I would feel _quite_ presumptuous in doing so. My wife and I were blessed to be able to court and marry in peacetime. Samantha may have left you with the impression,' he goes on, 'that we oppose the idea of her making a life for herself, away from us – unless she were to take the veil, I suppose, as she sometimes spoke of doing when she was younger. Neither Mrs Stewart nor I _ever_ took her seriously, I can assure you.'

 _He only means about becoming a nun,_ Andrew tells himself, but the remark cuts too close to the bone, and he feels his smile fading.

'With hindsight, I am bound to concede that both my wife and I became overly dependent on our daughter during the difficult years of the thirties. I can assure you, however, that we hold no such view about her future and never have,' Sam's father is saying. 'I suppose that that may very well be where _you_ enter the picture.'

Andrew starts to answer this – _I hope so_ or something to that effect – but Mr Stewart doesn't give him time to do so.

'But as you say, Flight Lieutenant, a national emergency such as this one is _not_ conducive to the making of grand plans – _nor,_ I strongly suspect, to the formation of reliable impressions. And that being the case – perhaps I _do_ have some worthwhile counsel after all – I think that it would be best for _all_ concerned if any... seal of approval were deferred until more fully-formed perceptions can be had.'

Andrew is considering how he ought to reply to this when Sam and her mother return to the table.

* * *

'Samantha has told us about your mother and her watercolours,' Mr Stewart is saying. 'I'm embarrassed to admit this, but the name Rosalind Howard is unfamiliar to me. Did she exhibit her work?'

'Yes, from time to time,' Andrew replies. 'There was a gallery in Eastbourne that used to show her seascapes, I remember. But I think that she most often gave her pictures away or simply kept them – my father must have sixty or seventy. Now that I think about it, there were a couple of museum exhibitions, group shows, that she was in – one at the Brighton Museum and one here, in Hastings.'

'Ah! We were at your Hastings Museum only this afternoon!' Mr Stewart exclaims.

'Oh – no film, then,' says Sam.

'You didn't _tell_ us, Samantha, that the museum would be _directly_ on our route to the cinema,' Mrs Stewart tells Sam with an air of humouring her spouse. 'It came _looming_ up on our left – and that was that!'

'I'd sent them off to see _One of Our Aircraft is Missing_ after they visited the station this morning,' Sam explains to Andrew.

'I wonder what became of the works in those exhibitions,' Mr Stewart goes on.

'I've no idea,' Andrew admits. 'I was ten years old, I think, at the time of the Brighton show. The Hastings show was just before she died – it was still open at the time, in fact.'

'Ah. Yes.'

'You must come and visit us in Lyminster, Flight Lieutenant,' Mrs Stewart says, filling a silence. 'It's a _very_ quiet place, but it has its charms.'

'Samantha and I have spoken a bit about that. I'd like to, very much,' Andrew replies, feeling _almost_ certain that he means what he says. 'I'll be due some leave in February – perhaps then. Has the war effort been much in evidence in Lyminster – other than rationing, of course?'

'Not in particular,' Mr Stewart answers. He tells Andrew about the shrinking of the village's population. 'We some evacuees at the start, but they were relocated in 1940, and the forces haven't been in evidence – there've been several rumours that they're about to arrive, but we're too far from the sea to be of any interest to the Navy and too close to sea _level_ to be of use to the R.A.F.'

' _I'd_ been expecting at least one of our local stately homes, such as they are, to be requisitioned for some purpose, but as yet not even _that_ has happened,' Mrs Stewart adds.

Both Sam and her father hear a familiar note in her mother's voice: tiredness. And it _has_ grown rather late. A pair of chess players has concluded their match and left, and a woman whom Andrew remembers as the manageress is encouraging a bridge party to do the same. Sam rises from the table and walks over to her.

'Thank you for letting us sit for so long,' she says.

'Not at all,' the older woman replies. 'I gather that this was an important _occasion.'_

'Yes... _rather._ My parents are staying at the Royal Victoria, in St Leonards on Sea,' Sam goes on, 'and have been on their feet for quite a bit of the day.'

'I'll telephone for a taxi.'

* * *

Andrew says his good-byes to Mr and Mrs Stewart and retreats towards the café, leaning slightly against one of the building's pilasters as Sam confers with her parents at the kerb. They are planning to leave as early as they can – 'as soon as that... _excercise_ that you mentioned this morning is over,' her mother says – in hopes of arriving in Lyminster before nightfall. They'll telephone her tomorrow night regardless, her father tells her.

The taxi arrives; it departs with its passengers. Sam is surprised to discover that she feels slightly bereft. She hasn't had a chance to show her parents the MTC's Hastings area command – although _that might be just as well,_ she thinks, in view of Mrs Bradley's attitude towards her – or to even attempt to show them her billet.

 _Next time,_ she thinks, but she knows that they are unlikely to return to Hastings within the foreseeable future. Travel has become too difficult, a vicar can't simply take a holiday whenever he pleases and despite her the startling improvement in her mother's stamina and vitality Sam suspects that this journey has taken a good deal out of her.

 _I joined the M.T.C. to have my own life as much as to serve the war effort,_ Sam reminds herself, _and Mother and Dad seem to be managing rather well in my absence._

'Sam?' Andrew's voice comes from the direction of the café; she turns about to face in his direction with a smile. 'Ah! Good, don't move. I can make my way to you by the light of your flower. There.' He finds her hand with his, then her shoulder and at last her cheek. 'Oh, my darling, I'm so _terribly_ sorry.'

'What on earth _for?_ You were _brilliant!'_ Sam exclaims.

'My God, Sam, I talked non-stop! No-one else could get a word in edgeways!'

'Well, I _don't_ think that my parents were terribly interested in listening to _me_ chatter away about _you_ all evening! _I'm_ sorry, actually – all those questions about... _pedigree,_ and what you're going to do when the war's over! You know,' she goes on, 'when the war began my father _did_ rather have one foot in the "over by Christmas" camp – I'd forgot about that. _He_ must have forgot that he no longer thinks that way!'

'It's perfectly alright, Sam, really it is,' Andrew assures her. 'I can imagine that your parents must've been very... curious about me. Probably still are. Sam – may I kiss you properly now?'

'Oh! _Yes,_ Andrew, by _all_ means!'

Andrew has let his hand drop back down to his side – now he gently takes her face in both of his hands and leans forward. Her lips are soft and warm; her breath still tastes faintly of chocolate. He hears Sam's handbag drop softly to the ground and feels her hands on his shoulders, drawing him still closer to her. Then she flings both of her arms around his neck and – to his surprise and hers as well – when he slides his tongue into her mouth she meets it with her own.

They hear the sound of a door opening – the side door of the café's building – and move away from one another hurriedly. The manageress walks quickly away and takes no notice of them.

'Thank you for calling me Samantha when you were speaking to them,' says Sam. 'I'm _sure_ that they'll have liked that _very_ much! They don't approve of me asking people to call me Sam. "That vulgar diminutive" – that's what my father calls it.'

'Not at all – it was very easy, really, after the first try. Samantha's a beautiful name, you know. Would it be all right,' Andrew goes on hesitantly, 'if _I_ were to call you that? Not _all_ of the time, of course – just occasionally,' he explains.

She doesn't answer him immediately. Calling herself Sam, Andrew knows, is a way of telling the world that she isn't merely someone's dutiful, docile daughter.

'Only when there is absolutely _no-one_ else about to hear you,' Sam replies after a moment, sounding very serious.

'I can manage that,' Andrew agrees. 'I rather _like_ that idea, in fact.'

He looks up and down the lane and peers into what little of George Street can be seen from here; they are quite alone. Then he leans towards Sam until his lips are a quarter of an inch from her ear.

'I love you, Samantha,' he whispers.

'I know that you do,' she whispers back, turning towards him a bit, 'and I love you.'

'So _very_ much.'

'Yes.' Her voice would be _quite_ unsteady, she suspects, if she were to try saying anything more than that.

Inside of her, at the center, where her legs are joined to her torso, something has begun to move and open. She knows this sensation, has known it at intervals for the past couple of years, perhaps even a bit longer than that, when she is with Andrew or thinks about him; but – _Vicar's daughter to the last,_ she thinks – only now, at this very moment, is she beginning to understand what it means.

* * *

 **Author's notes:**  
OxfordKivrin posited the idea of Andrew as a law student in her marvelous story _Burn Brighter Through the Cold,_ which you can read on this site, and I considered and rejected English, Greats, and modern history before plumping for that. Andrew's account of his choice of subject is also informed by, among other things, my reading of Ved Mehta, "What Shall I Read? An Oxford Memoir," _The American Scholar,_ v. 62, no. 1 (1993), pp. 55-77, which is an excerpt from his _Up at Oxford_ (New York: W.W. Norton, 1993).

The portrait that Mrs. Stewart mentions can be viewed on the Fitzwilliam Museum's website (record ID 18128). I was first introduced to it and its subject in Anthony Rooley, "New Light on John Dowland's 'Songs of Darkness'," _Early Music_ v. 11, no. 1 (1983), pp. 6-22.


	11. Chapter 11

They are both silent for a moment, except for the sounds of their breathing.

Sam suddenly sees a very clear picture of herself standing on a precipice overlooking . . . water? Rocks? Trees? She does not even know what what she ought to see; she is looking into a void.

She clears her throat gently.

'When my mother dragged me off to the ladies,' she says in a voice whose steadiness surprises her, 'she told me that she and my father expect me to... practise very high standards of behaviour at all times.'

'Yes... of course,' Andrew answers her; Sam can hear the wry smile in his voice. 'And by logical extension,' he adds 'that means that I must be on _my_ best behaviour as well.'

'I suppose so – although in fact she didn't mention you just then,' she replies.

Andrew takes a small step away from her, just enough to allow him to manoeuvre, and offers her his arm.

'May I see you home, Miss Stewart?'

* * *

'What did my father say to you while my mother and I were away from the table?' Sam asks as they walk up George Street.

'Oh, he asked about reading law, how that came about, and... my choice of university. He also said that... ' Andrew trails off into silence, then tries again. 'I gather that I managed to make a _fairly_ decent first impression, Sam, but your father thinks that wartime conditions don't help one to form _useful_ impressions. I suspect what he meant is that he's reserving the right to say in the end, "Keep away from my daughter, full stop, end of conversation." What else did your mother have to say?' he goes on.

'Rather the same sort of thing, actually. She thinks that you have fanciful notions about me.'

'Does she really? What _sort_ of "fanciful notions"? I flatter myself that I have a _truer_ picture of you than most people do, if you want to know.'

'The phrase "warrior angel" was used.'

'Well – _yes._ That's _very_ good, in fact!'

'She said that it'll be _difficult_ for you when you discover that I'm _not.'_

The sheer meanness of this, and what seems to him the obliviousness of it, takes Andrew's breath away for a moment.

'Sam,' is all that he can say at first.

'She told me that men _often_ have those sorts of ideas about women, at least at first,' Sam goes on. 'My father used to think of her as a famous Elizabethan patroness of the arts, apparently – a particular one, I mean. The Countess of Bedford, she said.'

'And... he doesn't any longer?'

'No, and she said that it shows what sort of a man he is that it didn't matter to him in the end.' _And that we'll have to see whether you measure up to that standard_ – though she doesn't repeat that part.

'Sam,' Andrew says again. 'They love you, I can see that,' he goes on. 'But they don't understand... what they _have_ in you.'

'My parents were _never_ looking for some sort of... extraordinary child – that's what _you_ must understand,' Sam tells him urgently. 'Especially not after all of the troubles that they had, _trying_ to have me. So while it's quite _wonderful_ that _you_ think that I'm so wonderful – it really, truly _is,_ Andrew – it _doesn't_ matter to _them.'_

'All right, Sam,' he says quietly. 'Did they enjoy seeing Police HQ?' he asks.

'I think so, yes. It was my mother's idea to do that – I'm really quite astonished at the change in her! Do you know, they _walked_ all the way from the Royal Victoria? That's fully a _mile!_ Three years ago she wouldn't even have _tried_ to do that, I'm _quite_ sure!'

'That's wonderful, Sam!'

'It _is._ I ought to find it sad that it took the war to do that, I know, but somehow I simply _can't.'_

'I know _exactly_ what you mean,' Andrew say quietly, smiling into the darkness. 'What did you show them?'

'Nothing alarming, of course! Only how the front desk operates, and the interview rooms, and the kitchen, and so on. And I took them in back of the station to see the Wolseley. _That_ turned out to be rather exciting – we were out of doors in time to see the American bombers! Did you see them?'

'Yes, I did. What a lot of swankers!'

'They were just saying hello.'

Andrew makes an unimpressed sound.

'I saw the first of the new company arrive as well, by ground transport this morning,' Sam continues. 'I was waiting in the car while your father interviewed... someone at the Hawthorne Cross aerodrome.'

'Was this about Miss Beaux?'

'Yes, if that's really her name.'

'What makes you say _that?'_

'It seems that she may have been using more than one! After the first interview – well, that was with Sergeant Orloff – your father sent me to the car to wait, which I suppose means that the second person whose statement he and Milner took was Joe.' She offers a summary of the day's discoveries. 'In any event,' she goes on, 'after my parents and I went back into the station Glenda arrived to give _her_ statement.'

'After being on duty all night?'

'Yes – how did _you_ know that?'

'Robert and I were lounging about outside the mess last night while I was waiting for it to be late enough to telephone you. One of the searchlights began signaling to the others before the alert began and he said that it was hers.'

'Oh, I see! Well, at any rate, she must have been nervous about it – giving a statement to the police, I mean – which _quite_ surprised me. She asked me to sit in, the way that I do sometimes when a woman is interviewed.' Sam relates the story of Glenda's interview, much to Andrew's amusement. 'I think that your father really was... confounded.'

'I can well imagine! Do you suppose that Dad _will_ need to take a statement about this from me as well?' Andrew wonders.

'He might feel that there's enough information already,' Sam speculates, 'although he might want to talk to you regardless, just for the sake of... thoroughness. You'd better ask him yourself, though. It isn't the sort of thing he'd tell me.'

'No?'

'No. It's just as you said when we were first walking out, do you remember? Separate boxes. You belong in the family box.'

'And you're... '

'In the work box,' says Sam.

Andrew is briefly silent again.

'If that were _entirely_ true,' he replies at last, 'he wouldn't have sent you outside while he interviewed Joe.'

He says this in his most confident voice, but speaks at least partly to reassure himself. The once-darkened room is still filled with daylight, but the sun has gone behind a cloud. Certainty – he still feels that, but with a shadow of anxiety along the edge.

 _And, oh – bloody hell!_

'Sam, I _do_ need to apologise for something after all. I told Dad about your brothers and sisters – I hadn't planned to do that, I promise you, but when I spoke with him last night he said something about you being an only child and I blurted out that you're _not_ and, well, that wanted explaining. I'm sorry.'

'It doesn't matter, Andrew – I don't mind at all, _really_ I don't. When I first became your father's driver he didn't seem terribly interested in hearing about me _or_ my family, and that _is_ rather a dreadful thing to hear from someone, so I didn't say anything about it, and since then... the occasion has never come up, I suppose.'

'Dad might _possibly_ feel differently now – I think he was a bit shaken up by it, really. You've become _very_ quiet, Sam,' Andrew adds, after she is silent for a bit.

'I hadn't realised... that you and your father speak about me.'

'I telephoned him last night because I _was_ slightly petrified by the idea of meeting your parents – as you know – and was hoping for some advice, and because I couldn't get 'hold of you at first. To be honest, though, it's just as you said. We _do_ talk about you, yes, but... only from time to time, and it's me who brings up the subject. Dad has a very high opinion of you, though, Sam, I can tell you _that_ much,' he goes on.

'He thinks that I talk too much and an always sticking my oar in,' Sam responds.

'No.' _But it would be good to hear that from **him,**_ Andrew thinks.

* * *

'Ah – looks as though you survived.'

His father is listening to the wireless. _Messiah,_ of all things, in the middle of November.

'What's this, Dad?' Andrew asks.

'Middle East Forces Choir, from Cairo Cathedral,' his father explains. 'They have to make their own entertainments out there, I imagine.'

'Seems an odd choice.'

'It _isn't_ a Christmas piece, Andrew, you know. What would you have picked instead?'

'Oh, _I_ don't know – _Israel in Egypt,_ perhaps, if we're staying with Handel. Seems a bit more apt.'

'How was your evening?' Foyle asks as he switches the wireless off.

'Well – I don't think that I embarrassed myself _too_ badly,' Andrew allows. 'Sam said she was actually pleased with me, so _that's_ good. And Mrs Stewart invited me to visit them.'

'How did they strike you?'

'You've met them – both of them?'

'Yes, this morning they came to inspect Sam's post, if you want to put it that way. Her father did most of the talking, though. Asked about a piece of evidence in a case Milner and I were working on the last time he was here – a small sculpture.'

'Mm. Well, Mrs Stewart seems to be something of a wit – possibly of the sort whose wrong side you wouldn't want to be on.'

'Doesn't sound like the best qualification for a vicar's wife.'

'I thought the same thing. I wonder if she deliberately, oh, holds herself in at times. Mr Stewart asked a lot questions about our family – Mum's side in particular. He's a sort of spare-time art historian, apparently. Seems he knows all about Gram, as well.'

'Anything else?'

'They do love her, Dad, I can see that,' Andrew replies after a silence, 'but they don't understand how _good_ she is, they _didn't_ strike me as being especially proud of her, and they don't, um... _see_ her clearly.'

'Whereas you _do.'_

'Well, yes, I think that I _do.'_ Andrew takes a deep breath. 'On that general subject,' he continues, 'there's something... there's something I need to ask you, Dad.'

'Go right ahead,' Foyle says

His son is silent for a moment, however, perhaps taking time to frame his question.

'What do you think about Sam?' Andrew asks.

* * *

 _9.20 p.m. – Back from supper. Was late (deadly sin) due to dithering about clothes & not knowing way to Wm Ln. Andrew __awfully_ _good, amused M & D, __very_ _patient w D's questions. (Family tree, etc._ _ _– ridiculous._ ) (But also about Mrs F's watercolours – __good_ _.) D apparently not opposed to Andrew but saving final judgement until later date – told him this after M hauled me off to ladies' to tell me same thing, also that Andrew glorifies me – says common failing in men, D did this w her but wasn't put off when realised she was ordinary girl. (Obviously thinks Andrew won't measure up to D's standard!) Andrew annoyed when I told him this afterwards – said they don't have high enough opinion of me! Quite marvelous and astonishing he has such lovely notions but must face facts – M & D think of me as garden variety, quite happy about it. Told Andrew this.  
M invited Andrew to Lyminster when he has leave. Sea Board Café nice place. Evening a success on whole. M & D leaving tomorrow – am surprised at how sorry I am.  
Andrew walked me home. Told me his father thought I was only child so put him in picture. Wondering now if ought to bring this up w Mr F. Also told me his father thinks highly of me. Not very sure about this.  
M also told me in ladies' she & D expect us to refrain from carnality. (Correct word? __Need __dictionary_ _.) Realised_ _ _afterward_ for first time how difficult this will be. As well, might be more so for Andrew. Had not thought much about this up until now._

* * *

'I think that the Hastings Police are _very_ fortunate that she was seconded to us,' Foyle answers slowly, 'and I'll be the first to admit that I was much slower to recognise that than I ought to have been.'

This is not really what Andrew is asking about, he strongly suspects, but it also occurs to him that he will need to choose his words with care.

'She thinks that _you_ think she's too talkative and, um, too inclined to meddle in police matters,' his son tells him.

'So she is at times.'

'But you're still glad that she's about.'

'Of _course_ I am. I suppose I wish she'd had more education, but she deserves tremendous credit for trying to make up for that,' Foyle says, 'even if she sometimes does so by asking too many questions at the most inconvenient possible times. Of course, to hear _you_ talk, with a few more years in school Sam would've been the Marie Curie of the South Coast.'

'I never said _that,_ Dad. Do you know, though, she remembers everything she's ever seen or heard?'

'I think you're exaggerating just a _bit,_ Andrew – but yes, a retentive memory, I've noticed that. Runs in families, sometimes,' Foyle adds. 'Andrew,' he goes on after a moment. 'This sounds – well, as though you'd come to a decision.'

'I have,' Andrew replies.

'Have you asked Sam?'

'No,' Andrew admits. 'It really only occurred to me this evening – as something other than a vague idea, I mean, as something possible to _do._ You might call that odd timing – I wouldn't disagree with you. Besides that, though, I suppose I'm a bit, well, nervous about what her reply might be.'

'Mm. You've only been back with her a couple of months,' his father points out. 'Or the other way 'round, if you like – _she's_ only been back with _you_ for a couple of months.'

'Well, yes. That _is_ true. Please understand, though, Dad, this isn't a _completely_ new idea of mine.'

Foyle nods.

'It's, um, a bit unusual, in _my_ experience, to hear you talk about a girl's _mind_ before anything else,' he comments.

'Perhaps Sam isn't, well, my usual sort of girl,' Andrew replies. 'Perhaps that's the point. I _do_ love the way Sam's mind works, that's true – the way she... squirrels things away, I suppose, until they suddenly become useful – but I also love... everything else about her, you know.'

Andrew is blushing; he sounds and happy but bewildered, as though at a loss for words to express his feelings.

 _There's a first time for everything,_ his father thinks.

'I haven't quite answered your question, Andrew, have I?' Foyle observes after a silence. 'To put it as simply as possible, I would have no objection at all to Sam as your wife. On the contrary. Having said that, I don't think that it would be advisable for you to move quickly.'

'No?'

'You just said yourself that you _don't_ really know her feelings on the subject.'

'Point taken.'

'And there's another matter as well.'

'What's that?'

'I'd have to give her notice,' Foyle announces.

 _'Why?_ There are plenty of married women in the MTC, aren't there?'

'Yes, quite a few, I think, but how many of them are seconded to their own fathers-in-law?'

'Point taken once again,' Andrew concedes.

'Anything else on your mind?' Foyle asks after a silence.

'There is, in fact. I heard some news today that I think I ought to pass on to you,' Andrew announces. 'This must go no farther, however.'

'Then ought it to go even _this_ far?'

'I _did_ think about that, Dad, but if I leave off telling you about this until it becomes, um, permissable – well, that might mean telling you on _very_ short notice.'

'Go ahead, then,' says Foyle, feeling suddenly uneasy.

'This morning I learned – _not_ in an official communiqué, you understand, but on _very_ good authority – that after the next class of trainees passes out – which is to say, after the second week in February – No. 605 Squadron is to be disbanded. That really _isn't_ much of a surprise,' Andrew explains, and tells his father what he'd told Sam on Sunday about the overcrowding at R.A.F. Hastings.

'I see,' is all that Foyle says at first. 'And what will happen to _you_ at that point?' _This was inevitable,_ he reminds himself.

'If I stay on here, it would be in Coastal Command or perhaps Fighter Command. I suspect one of those _is_ what's most likely to happen – there's some advantage to having a pilot posted on his home turf, after all,' Andrew explains, 'and certainly _I'd_ be happiest.'

'And, um, what are the other possibilities? Remain in Training Command, but go elsewhere, I suppose.'

'I've been in Training Command _twenty months,_ Dad – that's a _very_ long time! I said as much to Sam's father this evening. Most chaps are reassigned after a year, or fifteen months at the most.'

'Perhaps they think highly of you.' Foyle sees his son shift uncomfortably. 'Well, never mind that. What else might happen?' he goes on, although he has a good idea of what the answer will be.

'I could be both transferred _and_ reassigned,' Andrew states matter-of-factly. 'And I could be sent overseas.'

His father nods.

'How much of this have you told Sam?'

'None at all. I only found out this morning, and this evening didn't seem to be the right time.'

'Mm. Are you _going_ to tell her?'

'I know what you're going to say, Dad,' Andrew replies after a long silence. 'Trying not to worry Sam _hasn't_ been the most successful policy I've ever followed.'

'Something very much like that, yeah.'

'And... and you're right, of course, Dad. I _hate_ the idea, though.'

'You've just said that waiting until it's actually permissible to talk about this might mean announcing it just a _day_ in advance – same as last time,' Foyle points out, 'which was unavoidable but probably _didn't_ make things easier for _either_ of you. Surely you'll _both_ be better off if _she_ can have some time to, um, steel herself.'

'What about all those posters we see telling us to keep whatever we know to ourselves, no matter to whom we'd be repeating it?'

'Why shouldn't you place as much trust in her as you've just placed in me?'

'You're right, Dad – of course I'll tell her. Just a question of finding the right time and place.'

'Difficult conversation to have in public, I suppose. You coming back here for the week-end?'

'I'm planning to, yes.'

'Well, barring foul weather I have my usual appointment at the river on Saturday, if that helps.'

'Thanks. I'll keep that in mind.'

'It's getting late,' Foyle notes. 'See you for breakfast?'

''Fraid not. I'll have to catch the first number 4 bus. I have to report at 600 hours and I'll eat after that.'

'That's an _hour_ before sunrise,' Foyle objects.

'Can't be helped, Dad – there's a _war_ on, you know! The odd thing is, it seems I may simply turn around and come back to town for part of the day.'

'Really? This wouldn't this have anything to do with, um, Allied troop movements, would it?'

'It might, in fact.'

'Well – see you there, then.'

* * *

Sam switches the light back on, gets out of bed and retrieves her diary from her haversack.

 _10.50 – D also asked Andrew about plans for after war. (_ _Really __quite __ridiculous_ _!) Andrew mentioned he has been in Trng Cd for long stretch – true – wonder if this means he expects assignment to end soon. Rather suspect he wants this. Also wonder if he will be transferred. Don't wish to think about this but obviously will have to._


	12. Chapter 12

Foyle holds the receiver to his ear with one hand, waiting, and turns the pages of the Marine Assembly Room register with the other until he finds the signatures that he's looking for. Leaving this item in his office all night rather than locking it in the evidence room was a bit irregular; but Peters had been the only constable on duty with enough seniority to have a key to the evidence room, and lately Foyle has been sufficiently irritated with the man that he hadn't wanted to leave the register where the constable might find it.

 _Josephine Bell  
Joseph Farnetti_

Unmistakably the same handwriting; the _Joseph_ in each signature is formed in precisely same way.

No-one is answering at the other end of the line – _no change from yesterday, then,_ Foyle thinks – and in any event someone has just knocked on the door.

'Yes?' he responds as he puts the receiver back into its cradle.

'Good morning, sir. It looks as though Sam was right about the Christian names,' Milner announces as he enters Mr Foyle's office. 'Here's what I found.' He opens the note pad he's been holding and sets it down in front of Mr Foyle, adding, 'The staff at the Hastings Library were very helpful.'

 _Augustus –_ _great or venerable – from Latin_ _augere_ _, 'to increase'.  
Joseph – Hebrew, 'He will add'.  
— __Name __This_ _Child:_ _A __Dictionary __of __English __and __American __Christian __Names_ _– Eric Partridge – London, 1936._

'Nice work.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'I think we can now begin _tentatively_ to operate from the assumption that all three names are being used by the same woman, don't you? Someone with some education, most likely, although it _still_ strikes me as a pretty inept ruse. Sam has some examples of Corporal Farnetti's handwriting,' Foyle adds. 'She's going to bring them in here after she's dealt with the car.'

* * *

Having greeted Brookie, placed the Wolseley's distributor cap safely in his desk drawer, and asked a bit anxiously whether her parents have telephoned (they have not), Sam stands outside the door to Mr Foyle's office and raises her hand to rap on it, but stops before doing so. She squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath and lets it out.

 _I've been watching detectives at work for two and a half years,_ she reminds herself, _and this isn't simply some daft notion I've suddenly got hold of. I've been thinking about it since Tuesday._

* * *

'It seems,' Foyle explains, having caught sight of Milner's look of surprise, 'that there's a tradition in Sam's family of retaining any and _all_ correspondence, no matter _what.'_

'Lucky for us, then,' Milner comments.

There is a knock on the door.

'Yes?'

'Here – oh, good morning, Milner! Here they are, sir,' says Sam. She has four items in her hands, which she sets down one by one on Mr Foyle's desk: a sheet of letter paper, a greetings card and the envelope in which each was one sent. The letter has been carefully folded so that only the bottom third is visible, but there's no way of hiding what's written inside of the card. Foyle tries not to look at it, but he can't avoid seeing the date: _August 30_ _th_ _, 1942._

 _All over by then, if I recall rightly,_ he thinks.

 _Though Andrew wasn't back in Hastings until the following day._

 _Nothing to do with the matter at hand,_ he reminds himself.

The letter is signed simply _Joe,_ but the corporal – still a private first class at that point – signed his full name on the card. It's also on the envelopes, part of each return address, though the penmanship is more careful there.

'Right, then,' Foyle says aloud. They can all see clearly that someone else signed the register; there's no mistaking the difference. 'Sam's right about this as well, it seems,' he goes on, looking up.

'I'm _sorry,_ sir?' Sam replies, half asking and half exclaiming.

'Here's what I found at the library yesterday, Sam,' Milner explains, proffering his notes.

'Increase – add – they mean almost _precisely_ the same thing!' says Sam excitedly. 'It _must_ be the same girl!'

'That seems likely,' Foyle agrees. 'Trouble is, it doesn't tell us a – a single thing. Whatever this woman's name may actually _be,_ and no matter _why_ she's using more than _one,_ and in _fact_ no matter why she gave Peters a false address, she's _still_ vanished without a trace. We've found no-one who's seen her after 12th September, there's _no_ indication that this business is connected to the Plynlimmon Road burglary in _any_ way, and we still _don't_ know why anyone would break into someone's house and take nothing but a driving license and a passport.'

'Sir?'

'Oh, I'm sorry, Sam – here are these back. Very kind of you to bring them in. Thank you.'

'Not at all. Always glad to be of help. Actually, sir -'

When Foyle and Milner look up, they see that Sam is standing even more upright than usual, chin raised.

'- it occurred to me that the stolen documents aren't _entirely_ useless – not to _everyone.'_

Milner and Mr Foyle exchange a glance, then look back at Sam, apparently waiting for her to continue.

' _I_ have a driving license and I use it every workday,' Sam explains.

'You have official duties as a driver,' Mr Foyle points out.

'So might Mr Saxby,' Sam goes on.

'When you and I went to interview him he pointed out to us that his car is up on blocks, though,' Milner points out. 'I telephoned the County Council and they confirmed the plate number. That's definitely his car, Sam.'

'And he told me and Milner that he's a maths tutor,' says Mr Foyle. 'What are _you_ suggesting, Sam?'

'Mr Saxby might have official responsibilities of a sort that he... wasn't free to discuss,' says Sam, 'and which would require a driving license or a passport, or both, to carry out. Someone might have wanted to prevent him from doing so.'

This is met with silence at first.

'Well. Something of that sort occurred to me as well,' Mr Foyle responds at last. 'Every school in the area has been evacuated. The only children still here are either in work or are running wild because their parents are too close to their wits' end to look after them properly. Mr Saxby _did_ tell us that what with one thing and another he doesn't get much custom these days, which is hardly surprising, but I didn't see any signs of more than normal privation – did _you,_ Milner?'

'No, sir, I really can't say that I did.'

'So unless he has a comfortable private income – quite possible, of course – _someone_ must be paying him to do _something._ In the mean time I've just now tried his line for the third time during the past twenty-four hours. There's been no answer.'

He seems about to continue when the telephone rings.

'Yes? ... Yes. ... I see. ... Good. Thank you for being so prompt. ... Well then, please thank _him_ for me. ... Understood. ... Good-bye. Right,' he says as he rings off, 'Milner, you and Brooke are in charge here for the next ninety minutes or so. Sam -'

'I'll get the car, sir.'

* * *

Sam had been quiet on the way from the house to the station, saying little other than that Farnetti's letter and card were in her haversack. Foyle had minded this even less than usual. He'd sat up later than he'd planned to do the night before, thinking about his son and what the future might hold.

She is just as quiet now, which weighs on him for once.

 _There's no very good reason for barring Andrew as a subject of conversation,_ he tells himself for what is now far from the first time. _The only reason Sam avoids mentioning him is that she knows_ I'm _doing so, and the only real reason for_ that _..._ may _be that I don't want to admit that Andrew is old enough to be thinking seriously about marriage, or that he might actually be sufficiently responsible to do so._

 _Still..._

'How're your parents getting on?' he ventures at last.

'Oh, quite well, sir. They're going back today – leaving as early as they can, my father said. He wants to be back in Lyminster tonight if possible. On their way here they stayed overnight in Brighton,' Sam explains.

'So as not to tire your mother, I suppose.'

'Yes, and they... ' Sam trails off. 'There was something they wanted to _see_ in Brighton.'

'Was it, um, was it a good visit?'

'I _think_ so, sir,' Sam replies after a second or two of silence. 'I actually found myself wishing that they could stay a bit longer.'

'Must be difficult for a vicar to take a longer holiday.'

'Quite _impossible,_ sir, especially with no curate. I can only remember _very_ short holidays with my parents when I was a girl – _always_ in the middle of the week. Whenever I went to stay with relations for weeks at a time my father would take me there, return to Lyminster and then fetch me back afterwards. There _was_ that ecumenical tour in Edinburgh – do you remember me telling you about that, sir?'

'Ummm – yes. Yes, I _do_ remember that, Sam.'

'That was an entire _week_ – but for my father is was Church business, not a holiday.'

She falls silent again.

'Anything, um, on your mind, Sam?'

'I was wondering, sir,' Sam begins tentatively as she manoeuvres the Wolseley along Cambridge Road. 'The address that Miss... that she was actually reported missing _from_ – in Boyne Road, wasn't it?'

'Yes, it was.'

'Have the people _there_ heard anything from her, I wonder?'

'They hadn't when I checked with them a month ago. They've left the area since then – the house was destroyed in the air raid on the seventeenth. The problem is, Sam, there's not enough to go on in this case,' Mr Foyle continues. 'If you want to call it odd that Miss Beaux, or Miss Bell or whatever her name may be, gave Constable Peters Mr Saxby's address, well, I _won't_ disagree with you. But there's _nothing_ else to connect the two of them. As far as Mr Saxby is concerned, housebreaking and burglary are both illegal, of course, but it's petty crime and I'm afraid we _do_ have more pressing concerns. And if he _is_ doing some sort of classified war service, well, we've really _no_ reason to question him about that.'

Sam nods. Her theory about Mr Saxby having been received politely and even with respect, she is reluctant to press her luck farther.

Over the past two days, though, several ideas have begun to nag at her: that Miss Beaux and Mr Saxby are _both_ spies; that only _one_ of them is working for the Allies; that it was Miss Beaux who broke into Mr Saxby's house, stealing his driving license and passport in order to prevent him from carrying out his orders; that giving his address to PC Peters had been an unfortunate slip of the tongue resulting from preoccupation with her assignment.

Don't spies _always_ commit some fatal error, after all – enemy spies, at least?

* * *

PC Leckey shows Sam where to leave the car. Mr Foyle goes to find the reviewing stand, saying that he'll hold a place for her.

The sky is still overcast, but the clouds are the sort that don't threaten rain, and they have the beneficial effect of holding down the remaining mild air. It's warmer today than it has been all week; quite a good day, in fact, for a gathering out of doors.

The reviewing stand turns out to be nothing more than cordoned-off areas on either side of the point where Castle Street joins the Parade, but Sam's heart skips a beat when she sees where she and Mr Foyle will stand. The two streets form an obtuse angle, and Mr Foyle is standing in the point of the – _oh, what's the term?_ She tries to recall the geometry lessons her father gave her after she left school; he'd used a volume of Dutch architectural engravings as a textbook.

 _The reflex angle – that's it!_

'This is _superb_ , sir! We'll be able to see absolutely _everything_ from here!'

Over the road, at the far left-hand side in Castle Street, a girl of perhaps fifteen is assembling a camera to a tripod. She steps back and Sam sees that Anne Woods is behind her, great with child and seated on a canvas folding chair of the sort that one imagines seeing on the set of a film.

At the other end, in the Parade and also over the road, Sam sees a small cluster from the Navy and the Wrens, Helen amongst them.

On their own side, across from Anne, Sam notices her own commanding officer, Mrs Bradley of the perpetual foul temper, and another MTC officer, a younger woman whom Sam doesn't know.

Across from the Naval party Sam catches sight of a group in the dull green of the American forces: new arrivals come to see their predecessors off.

The Mayor of Hastings takes his place directly opposite Sam and Mr Foyle. Glenda appears next to him in a knot of A.T.S. officers. She offers them a wide smile, which grows even wider as her gaze shifts to a point somewhere to their right.

'Good to see you again,' Sam hears a male voice say. It comes from the point at which Glenda now seems to be looking; Mr Foyle has turned towards that direction as well.

'Likewise – and even _more_ congratulations are in order, I see,' a second male voice answers, vaguely recognisable like the first.

Anne, seated on her campaign chair, smiles as well and waves in their direction, though seemingly not at Sam herself.

'Can't hurt to humour you chaps, one supposes, and it _does_ look as though there's more space for us over there,' says the second voice.

Sam watches a group of the Home Guard gathering next to the Naval party. Out of the corner of her eye she sees that Mr Foyle, standing on her right, looks amused.

Several people pass behind Sam, settling in the open space to her left. A set of fingertips brushes her left arm just above the elbow. Startled, she turns in that direction and bursts into laughter.

'Good morning, Dad – good morning, Sam,' Andrew says cheerfully.

'Oh! What a wonderful surprise!' she exclaims. 'But why -?'

'Robert and I are representing R.A.F. Hastings, and Greville is here from Special Duties.'

Sam greets them both.

'Are _you_ the one who's to be congratulated, Greville? Oh, yes, I see! How marvelous!' Greville is, at last, wearing a Flight Lieutenant's double rings. Sam turns back to Andrew, who has faint dark circles under his eyes. 'Did you get up _awfully_ early for this?' she asks.

'Well, yes – but I'd have had to do that in any case. Had to report back to the base first. I'd have hated to miss this, though. Might be the only chance I ever have to get a look at my rival,' Andrew explains.

Sam is torn between pointing out that it was he who made it possible for himself to _have_ a rival in the first place and telling him that Joe never _was_ his rival, both of which are completely true.

She has no chance to do either. There is a faint hubbub further up in Castle Street. Anne's assistant helps her get to her feet, then moves to one side as Anne stands behind the camera.

An American jeep appears, with Captain Kieffer in the front passenger seat. Moving slowly, it is followed by another jeep and then by three military lorries, all of them open to the weather. The vehicles carry amongst them some two dozen soldiers and their kit. Uniformed personnel on both sides of the two roads, Sam included, come to attention and begin to salute as the convoy goes past – salutes that are returned by the Americans, at least those whose hands are free. Sporadic cheering erupts. The Americans might have got off to a rough start, but they seem to have endeared themselves to some extent.

Sergeant O'Connor, at the wheel of the second jeep, looks grimly ahead. Sergeant Orloff, in the first lorry's trailer just behind the cab, turns from left to right as the vehicle approaches the Parade – _away from Glenda, he must have seen her standing there,_ Sam thinks. To her surprise, he grins when he sees her and Andrew.

The second lorry goes by. The last of the lorries approaches the Parade.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sam sees that Anne's assistant has moved the camera on its tripod into the center of the road, and that Anne now stands behind it there.

'There,' Sam says quietly, turning very slightly towards Andrew without breaking her salute. 'In the last lorry, at the back. That's Joe. Good, he's facing this side. Do you see?'

'I _do_ see, in fact,' is all Andrew says.

'Not a dissimilar type – I do know that.'

From somewhere in the vicinity of Mrs Bradley someone breaks through the line of spectators and begins to run after the convoy: a slim woman with jet-black hair and eyes of such a vivid blue that their colour can be seen quite clearly from the footpath. She wears a light grey suit and no hat and carries a chrysanthemum.

She reaches the last lorry and begins running just behind it, reaching up as she does so to offer the flower to Joe, who has turned in her direction. He looks startled, even slightly alarmed, but reaches down to receive her gift.

Andrew breaks his salute and touches Sam's shoulder.

'Look, Sam, isn't that -'

Sam too has lowered her right arm as she turns towards Mr. Foyle.

'Sir, that's _her!_ That's Miss Beaux!'

The convoy has passed. Sam sees that Glenda, standing across from her, is still saluting in an absent-minded way but has clapped her left hand over her mouth in evident surprise.

Miss Beaux runs over the road towards the far end of the assembled spectators and disappears between the Naval party and the civilians next to them, almost knocking Helen to the ground as she does so.

The twin lines of spectators begin to break up.

Miss Beaux has vanished.

Anne has been giving instructions to her assistant, who now departs with the equipment.

'Sam, see if you can catch that photographer before she leaves, would you?' he says.

'I will, sir – she might not _be_ leaving quite yet, actually.'

Indeed, with the slightly waddling gait of advanced pregnancy Anne walks towards Greville, who approaches her in turn and helps her onto the footpath.

'Anne, it's _so_ good to see you!' Sam exclaims. 'How _are_ you?'

'Oh, I'm _quite_ well, thank you,' replies Anne, who does indeed look happy and exhilarated. 'Tomorrow's my last day on the job – before I begin my confinement, as people used to say – and my editor's going to be so _very_ pleased with me! Did you see that girl who ran after the Yanks?'

'Yes, I _did_ – did you get any pictures of her?'

'At least _four,_ and she _might_ be on the edge of another – I can't be certain until they're developed.'

'When do think that will _be,_ if I might ask?' Sam hears Mr Foyle inquire. He is behind her; she moves slightly to one side as he comes forward.

'Sir, this is my friend Anne Woods – she takes photographs for the _Observer,'_ Sam announces. 'My boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle,' she goes on, turning back to Anne.

'Can _I_ be of any help, Superintendent?' Greville asks, coming to his wife's side.


	13. Chapter 13

Taken aback, Foyle is silent long enough to allow Andrew to be the next to speak.

'Do you remember my friend Greville Woods, Dad? We used to fly together in Coastal Command. He's in the Special Duties Branch now.'

'I remember the _name_ , certainly, but I don't think that we've actually _met_ before this,' his father says evenly.

The scars from Greville's crash early last year – the outcome of a mission that would certainly have been Andrew's had their commanding officer not been perceptive enough to see Andrew's exhausted state – are not as severe as the Digby Manor hospital staff had feared and have even begun to fade, but they are still visible on the left side of his face. The most profound damage, though, is to his left hand. The outermost portions of three fingers are gone; only the thumb and forefinger are left more or less intact.

Foyle finds himself contemplating this – _all_ of it – at greater length than he wishes to.

'Mrs Woods, the woman whom we saw running after the convoy just now _may_ be an individual whose identity and, um, recent movements are of some _interest_ to the Hastings Police,' he says at last. 'It would be helpful to us if we could examine any photographs of her that you were able to take – as soon as possible.'

'Developing has been taken out of my hands, I'm afraid, Mr Foyle – it's considered unsafe for a woman in my condition to be exposed to those chemicals,' Anne explains. 'But the _Observer_ does try to print news in a _timely_ way, so I imagine they'll be ready fairly soon. You'll need to speak to my editor, though, if you want to see anything before it's published.'

'Of course.' _Possibly best if those photos_ weren't _published,_ Foyle thinks.

Sam's friend Second Subaltern Lyle comes over the road to where Foyle stands. She salutes Sam and the airmen and then turns to him.

'Mr Foyle, I'm all but _positive_ that the woman who ran out into the road just now was the same one I saw on _both_ of the occasions that we discussed yesterday,' she announces, adding, 'She's put on a bit of weight since September, I'd say.'

'Thank you, Subaltern, it's helpful to know that. What about you two?' Foyle asks, turning towards Sam and Andrew.

'I can't be _completely_ certain,' Andrew admits, 'but if it wasn't her, then it was someone who looks a _great_ deal like her.'

'I'd have to say the same thing, sir,' Sam agrees, adding, 'Glenda is the only one of us who saw her _twice.'_

'And Flight Lieutenant Chatto – did _you_ recognise that woman?' Foyle asks.

'Er, no. _Ought_ I to have?'

'Not necessarily,' Foyle concedes.

'I'll put you in the picture, Robin,' Glenda interjects.

'While exercising some discretion, please, Subaltern.'

'Needless to say, Mr Foyle,' she replies.

'Right. Well, we'll see if we can get a look at those photographs.'

Mr Foyle begins to walk in the direction of the car. Sam, after grasping and releasing Andrew's hand, starts to follow him.

'Oh – oh, dear! Mr Foyle?'

'Yes?' Foyle turns back towards Denmark Place in response to Mrs Woods' voice.

'Well – it's just – my husband and I were hoping that we might _borrow_ Sam for a couple of hours. He's been given the rest of the day as promotion leave and we're going to have lunch at a restaurant to celebrate, and we thought we'd invite Sam to join us.'

'Oh, thank you... ' Sam begins before trailing off and looking uncertainly at Mr Foyle, who nods his assent.

'Congratulations, Flight Lieutenant. Be back at the station by two o'clock, Sam, all right?'

'Thank you, sir! How will _you_ go back, though?'

'Constable Leckey can drive me.'

'What about the distributor cap?'

'Well, why don't you give it to me? Someone's waiting to speak with you, I think,' Mr Foyle adds.

The new arrival turns out to be Helen. By the time she has finished informing Sam about housekeeping arrangements during the next few days – and declining Anne's invitation, looking slightly abashed as she does so – the luncheon party has grown: Glenda is off duty until the following morning and Andrew and Chatto aren't due back at the airbase until 1600 hours. ('Night exercises,' Chatto explains.) As well, a problem has emerged.

'Where do you think we ought to _go?'_ Anne asks, sounding very much as though the question has only just now occurred to her.

'Well,' Andrew offers after a silence, 'Sam and I know a good place – not too far from here, in fact.'

* * *

The manageress of the Sea Board Café looks first amused when Sam and Andrew walk through the door, then ever so slightly startled when she sees the size of their party. But in a few moments small tables have been moved together to accommodate them and the group is seated. A pitcher of ginger beer appears and is poured out, a toast to Greville is proposed and drunk and he is teased a bit because he's unable to speculate – 'not _aloud,_ at any rate,' someone notes – on what he might have done to merit his promotion.

The talk turns to the near future: plans for Christmas are discussed, as are possible names for the baby.

'I can't think _why_ I said that I was expecting in _February,'_ Anne says, after realising that every single person at the table has heard her do just that, and that Sam lives in the same house with her new midwife. 'I must have miscounted the months!'

'Ooh, look there,' Glenda says in an excited whisper. 'The Americans aren't only _over_ here – they're actually _here_ – or at any rate _one_ of them is.'

A pilot of the United States Army Air Force – a major, from his insignia, although he must be a decade younger than Mr Foyle's friend Captain Kieffer – is hovering just inside the café's door, cap in hand but seeming to hesitate. As blond as Chatto and as tall, but broad where Chatto is attenuated, he scans the room as though searching for something or someone, shakes his head in apparent puzzlement, then smiles at the waitress with an apologetic air and hands her his cap.

She begins to lead him to a small table, but he notices the Woodses' party and veers off in their direction. All of them except Anne rise to their feet and come to attention.

'Please, no,' says the newcomer. 'All of you saw that performance this morning, I'm guessing – haven't we all had enough protocol for a while? Craig Vandercook, 10th Bombardment Wing, 8th Bomber Command, at your service. I've been trying to find my C.O. He's a teetotaler, so I figured he's more likely to be in a place like this than in a pub. But he's _not_ here, and I've got a pass for the rest of the day, so I might as well get myself some lunch.'

'A pleasure to meet you, Major,' Anne replies. 'Oh, do let _me_ make the introductions, Sam!' she adds, Sam having begun to do so out of habit. 'If nothing else, I want to see if I can remember everyone's assignments! I'm Anne Woods – this is my husband, Flight Lieutenant Greville Woods, Administrative and Special Duties Branch, R.A.F.'

The American pilot's gaze rests on Greville's scars for a fraction of a second too long, but he listens attentively as Anne goes around the table.

'Would you care to join us, Major?' she concludes.

'Golly, thank you! I'd be _delighted,_ if that's alright with everybody. I'm billeted with a couple up the street – they're _really_ nice, but they're old enough to be my parents, and most of their friends seem to be, too, so it's nice to be able to talk to some local people more or less _my_ age.'

Greville asks the waitress for another chair; there is some shifting about, and in a moment Major Vandercook is seated.

'Where in America are you from, sir?' Glenda asks.

'The simplest answer is Chicago, but I haven't actually _lived_ there since I started at West Point – that's our military academy – that was fourteen years ago,' Major Vandercook begins. 'My kid sister'll be the only one of us left there pretty soon. My father taught physics at the University of Chicago – he's still there, but he's doing some kind of war work. I'm not sure what it _is,_ exactly. And the last letter I got from my parents, they said that they thought they might be moving soon, somewhere out West. My sister's in her last year of med school at the U. of C.'

Plates of sandwiches appear.

'What sort of aircraft do you fly, sir?' Chatto enquires.

'Currently, Flying Fortresses. I actually just went back to Bomber Command this year. I was a flight instructor for a while, like you two gentlemen, until we _finally_ got into this war.'

Chatto nods.

' _I_ was in Bomber Command before I was assigned to Training Command – Bristol Blenheims, mostly,' he relates.

'How about you, Lieutenant?' Major Vandercook asks Andrew.

'I flew Spitfires in Coastal Command, sir,' Andrew replies.

'Were you an instructor for very long, sir?' Chatto goes on. 'Andrew and I -'

Andrew clears his throat suddenly; Chatto breaks off speaking. Sam glances at Andrew and then at Glenda, who meets her gaze with lips compressed.

Major Vandercook, apparently sensing that some line or other has come too close to being crossed, turns to Greville with an enquiring look.

'I used to fly in the same squadron with Andrew, sir, until all of _this_ happened,' Greville explains with remarkable calm, 'and I'm not permitted to discuss what I do now. Well, that isn't _quite_ true. I'm making a vital contribution to the war effort – I _am_ allowed to say _that_ much.'

'And clearly he's doing it _very_ well,' Anne chimes in. 'We're here today to celebrate his promotion.'

'Congratulations, Lieutenant – to _both_ of you, actually – and I understand completely, believe me. _This_ happened just last week, when we got to Liverpool, and _I_ don't know the reason why,' says Major Vandercook, pointing at his rank insignia and looking genuinely bewildered. 'But that's only the gents – what about the ladies? We've been told, many times, that there's been a lot more womanpower in the war effort over here than there has been at home. I _didn't_ know there were women in the artillery here, though, Subaltern.'

'I'm _actually_ in the Auxiliary Territorial Service,' Glenda explains, 'but searchlights _do_ belong to the Royal Artillery, after all, sir, so when my regiment was formed that's where we were assigned. You're quite right, though, sir. Women here are doing everything except firing guns – and _not_ only in the forces, I might add.'

'What about you, ma'am?' Vandercook asks, turning to Anne.

'I _used_ to work in an aircraft factory – _real_ war work,' Anne begins. 'And then -'

She breaks off and is silent for a second or two, unsure of how to explain her departure without dwelling on Greville's crash and his injuries.

'Well, I'd been taking photographs since I was a child, really,' she continues, 'and people _did_ tell me that I was good at it, and then at the end of last year there was a vacancy for a photographer at the _Observer_ – that's a Sunday newspaper here. But I've been... overtaken by events, I suppose one might say, and tomorrow's my last day.'

'Good for you – they'll probably really miss you. And what about you, miss?' Major Vandercook goes on, turning to Sam.

'I'm in the Mechanised Transport Corps,' Sam explains.

'Oh, yes, I've read about that. Government vehicles and civil defense, and so on. That's great. You know, Miss Stewart,' Major Vandercook goes on, 'I was _really_ glad when I came in here and saw you.'

Anne pokes Greville's leg underneath the table and, when he turns to look at her, nods towards Andrew, on whose face a faint scowl has suddenly appeared.

'During the parade there was a young lady in a Navy uniform standing just opposite me, and afterward I saw her talking to you. I thought ... ' Major Vandercook trails off, then begins again. 'Y'know, I _really_ hope that this won't seem too forward. I just thought that she... she looked like a nice girl... and ...' He trails off again, blushing.

'Chief Wren Telegraphist Helen Jones,' Sam explains. 'We're billeted together. If you have a card, sir, I could give it to her, but I ought to tell you -'

'I _don't_ have a card, unfortunately,' Major Vandercook interjects, 'but I do have _this.'_ From another pocket, he removes a small notebook and a pen. He writes on one page, carefully tears it out of the book, and hands it to Sam.

 _For Chief Wren Telegraphist Helen Jones, WRNS_

 _with compliments from_

 _Major Craig Vandercook  
10_ _th_ _Bombardment Wing, 8_ _th_ _Bomber Command, USAAF  
in c/o Mr. & Mrs. Giles Carver  
50 Collier Road, Hastings  
Phone: Hastings 883_

'Thank you, sir,' Sam says slowly. 'I _will_ give this to Helen – but I think that you ought to know that she... seems to have taken _against_ Americans in general – I don't know _why,_ in particular.'

 _'I_ do,' Glenda announces, explaining, 'I was billeted with Sam and Helen, sir, until two months ago. Helen walked out once with a chap from the 215th Engineering Company – Sergeant O'Connor. Hands _all_ over her, apparently.'

'Oh, good heavens,' Major Vandercook says, looking pained. 'That's lousy.'

'I was _very_ surprised that he asked her,' Glenda continues. 'I met him several times and he was such a bitter pill!'

 _'I_ don't remember hearing _anything_ about this,' says Sam.

'It was just after you went into hospital in August,' Glenda explains.

'Oh, I'm _sorry,'_ Major Vandercook interjects in a concerned tone of voice.

'Pneumonia,' Sam and Andrew reply in unison.

'I don't think that it was _quite_ as bad as Helen made out. It _wasn't_ a matter for the police, if that's what you're thinking, Sam – no need to tell the office. Felicity made sure of that.'

'She's a _very_ nice girl, she really is, but it might be a case of once bitten, twice shy,' Sam explains to Major Vandercook. Seeing his curious look, she goes on, 'I'm a driver for the police here.'

'So _you're_ the one! Why, miss, you're famous!' the American enthuses. 'Here, I'll show you.' He removes a pamphlet from a tunic pocket and pages through it. Sam has seen this booklet – _Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain_ is the title – but this copy seems to have more pages than the one that Joe showed her last Spring.

'There's a section in here on women in uniform, which I have to admit is something our guys are still getting used to,' Major Vandercook explains. 'It tells about all the different women's branches of the Armed Forces, and then about civilian women's uniformed organizations. Listen to this – "The Mechanized Transport Corps: This group was formed at the beginning of 1939. Although it is a civilian organization, the MTC has adopted a military-style rank structure, and its members will offer salutes and return yours. Late in 1941 the MTC became part of a Government department, the Ministry of War Transport, but until then its members served without pay and even had to pay for their uniforms out of their own funds." Is that true, Miss Stewart?'

'Yes, sir,' Sam says.

 _'Wow._ Anyhow, it goes on – "MTC personnel provide transportation to civil servants, war workers, and official visitors from overseas and drive and maintain government-owned motor vehicles of all kinds. They have been trained as mechanics as well as in a variety of skills, including map reading and first aid, that allow them to take full responsibility for the safety of their passengers. MTC drivers played a key role in the evacuation of refugees from France in 1940 and have also been serving in Africa and the Near East. Back in Britain, they have driven ambulances and fire trucks in the immediate aftermath of air raids and have been assigned (the British sometimes say 'seconded,' with the accent on the second syllable) to many Government agencies, hospitals and, in one case, a local police department".'

Sam is too stunned to say anything. Her cheeks feel warm, and when she realises that she is smiling she feels a faint pang of guilt, or perhaps it is embarrassment, which becomes more insistent when she feels Andrew take her hand. When she looks at him, he is beaming, his eyes aglow.

'You really ought to tell your parents about that, Sam,' he says.

'Oh – well,' Sam replies in an offhand way. 'Perhaps.'

* * *

The luncheon party has broken up. Greville and Anne, who no longer have petrol for their car, wait for a coach, his arm draped protectively about her shoulders. Chatto and Glenda loiter at the foot of Denmark Place as Sam and Andrew do the same in the Parade.

'I don't expect to be home until quite late on Friday, Sam, but if the weather holds, what would you say to walking on the Promenade by the beach with me on Saturday?' Andrew asks. 'It might be the last chance we have... ' _until quite possibly God only knows when,_ he thinks, but, 'until Spring,' he finishes the sentence aloud.

'I shan't be able to do anything at _all_ on Saturday until after I've gone 'round the shops,, I'm afraid,' Sam tells him. 'Mrs Hardcastle's taking a holiday and Saturday is the only day that any of us are free to go and buy food, but Penny's going to be on duty, Helen did it the last time this happened and Felicity the time before that, so I've drawn the short straw. That's what Helen was telling me after the parade.'

Andrew considers this.

'Well, look, why don't I go with you? I can keep you company in the queues and help you with your parcels.'

'Thank you – I'd _quite_ like that! Are you quite sure, though? Won't you be a bit bored?'

'No, I don't see why I should be. And it'll be good practice for... for the future. What time do want to set out?'

'Nine o'clock, if possible.'

'Good! I'll call for you then.'

* * *

'What's bothering our man Palgrave, then?' Andrew asks as Chatto drives the jeep toward the airbase.

'Oh, _that._ Right. Well,' Chatto begins, 'my family's in the publishing business, you know.'

'I _did_ know. That's a highly respectable firm, Robert.'

'Thank you. I was already aware of that, actually. At any rate, Palgrave's family is _not_ in the publishing business. That _isn't_ what he wants _us_ to think, but I made some inquiries. What I _ought_ to say, in fact, is that that _wasn't_ what he's wanted us to think _until the past few days._ There's a lesson to be learned here, Andrew – something to do with the dangers of self-aggrandizement.'

'What on _Earth_ are you talking about?'

'Well, the Red Cross have persuaded Jerry to let them set up libraries in their prison camps. Used books are being collected all over the country.'

'Yes, I know. I sent in some old books of mine.'

'Good for you, but you could have simply handed them over to me. I've got somewhat involved in organising this scheme – that's what I was doing when I went to Brighton last week-end. The problem, not _very_ surprisingly, is that Jerry wants control over what the prisoners can read.'

'Nothing to put ideas in their heads – or raise morale too high, I suppose.'

'Yes, that's part of it. No adventure tales, nothing with the words _freedom_ or _liberty_ prominently featured. As well, though, nothing by authours whom the Nazis have decided are degenerate, which is an _awfully_ long list – Shaw, Wells, it goes on from there. Quite a few American writers, as well.'

'And certainly no Jewish writers, I'd imagine.'

'Of course not. At any rate, nobody invited him as far as I'm aware, but Squadron Leader Palgrave has nosed his way into the project as well.'

'The better to put out that he's related to the publishing Palgraves.'

'Precisely. Well, last week a new title appeared on the list of degenerate books – _Palgrave's Golden Treasury.'_

'Seems a bit _odd,'_ Andrew interjects.

'Now, the interesting thing is that _those_ Palgraves, the publishing family, weren't always called that – though they've been using the name for well over a century, and I suppose that it's real enough legally. And apparently during the last war there was a rumour put about that their name was originally Pfaltzgraf.'

'Yeah, my dad's told me there was a _lot_ of that sort of thing.'

'At any rate, their name _wasn't_ Pfaltzgraf – it was Cohen. _That's_ why _Palgrave's Golden Treasury_ was banned, _and_ that's what our Palgrave's been in such a lather about.'

'Sweet J-' Andrew starts to interject, but thinks better of it.

'Heaven forbid,' Chatto goes on in a voice heavy with sarcasm, 'that he should be seen to have ties to what happens to be the enemy's most despised class of persons. It makes a chap wonder sometimes what it is that we're fighting for.'

* * *

 **Author's notes:**  
The rank of Flight Lieutenant in the R.A.F. was (and is) equivalent to that of Captain in the U.S. Army and Air Force, while a Major in those bodies is equivalent to a Squadron Leader in the R.A.F.

Major Vandercook's father has presumably become involved in the Manhattan Project, whose first major milestone – the first very small, controlled, self-sustaining nuclear chain reaction – was achieved on December 2nd, 1942. By this time plans were already underway to move the main research site to Los Alamos, New Mexico, some 1,200 miles (about 2,000 kilometers) southwest of Chicago.

 _Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain_ is an actual 1942 publication, but the passage that Major Vandercook reads aloud is from an imaginary revised and expanded edition.

Juliet Gardiner discusses the Red Cross's efforts to establish libraries in P.O.W. camps – and the obstacles that they faced – in _Wartime: Britain 1939-1945_ (London: Headline, 2004), p. 489.


	14. Chapter 14

'They turned out quite _well,_ I think, considering the lighting conditions. Cloud cover is always a problem,' Anne Woods comments.

Miss Beaux, or Bell or whatever her name may be, appears in five of the photographs, all hanging against a worn corkboard: a left profile as she emerges from the crowd on the right is followed by a view mostly from behind, with just a sliver of her face showing, as she begins to pursue the convoy.

This is followed by _a really fantastic snap,_ Sam thinks, showing the woman, seemingly having realised that she's drawn the attention of a photographer, looking over her left shoulder, revealing most of her face.

Then comes a picture of her offering the flower she holds to Corporal Farnetti, showing her right profile, and she can be glimpsed from the rear in a final photograph as she runs off amidst the crowd on the left-hand side. The Wren who'd wanted to speak with Sam afterward is visible as well.

'Telephoto lens?' Foyle asks, indicating the last two pictures.

'Yes – I'll _so_ miss that camera!' Sam's friend exclaims. 'My assistant cropped them a bit, as well.'

'Sam, is that the woman whom you and, um, the others assisted that day in September?'

'It is, sir. I'm _quite_ sure of that after seeing these. And Glenda was right – she's put on a few pounds. It makes her look younger. The first time I saw her, I remember thinking that she might be thirty. Now I'd say that she _must_ be in her middle twenties.'

'Who -' Anne begins to ask, but Sam cuts her off with a quick glance and a shake of the head.

'I don't suppose that it would be feasible for you to provide us with prints of these photographs?' Foyle asks.

Peter Greatorex, the editor of the _Chronicle,_ has a walrus moustache and a faintly harassed air. The latter becomes more noticeable when he hears Foyle's request.

'This newspaper, like the rest of the country, is struggling with a shortage of all varieties of paper, Mr Foyle – including photographic paper.'

'Well, yes – understood,' Foyle concedes. They have gone into the editor's office to discuss the matter, leaving Sam and Anne in the production room.

* * *

'I _do_ hope that Mr Foyle doesn't ask your editor to hold off printing these pictures,' she goes on, turning back to the photographs. 'It would really be a pity – they're _awfully_ good.'

'Thank you! Sam, who _is_ that girl?'

'I'm _so_ sorry, Anne, but it's a police matter – I _really_ can't talk about it, I'm afraid.'

'What's her name?'

'Not sure, actually,' Sam admits after a tiny silence.

'Is she suspected of having _committed_ a crime, or did she _witness_ one?' Anne presses further. Suddenly her eyes widen and her voice contracts to a whisper. 'Do the police think that she's a _spy?'_

'I... I don't know _what_ the police think,' Sam replies, startled.

* * *

'Would it be possible, then, for me to _borrow_ the existing prints for, um, a short period?' Foyle asks. 'They would be given excellent care, and I ought to be able to give them back to you in no more than twenty-four hours.'

'We go to press at noon on Fridays, and there's the matter of layout to be dealt with – I'd have to have them back by ten o'clock,' Greatorex insists. 'But yes, in the interests of law and order, Mr Foyle, I can do that for you.'

'Thank you.'

'I was afraid you were going to tell me that those pictures mustn't be printed,' the editor continues.

'Weelll, at _this_ point I haven't been able to form an _opinion_ on that subject,' Foyle tells him. 'I'll have more of a _basis_ for doing that, I hope, after I've been able to show them to a few people.'

* * *

Carrying the photographs in the envelope that Mrs Woods' assistant let him take, Foyle approaches Mr Saxby's house without much hope of learning anything new. The place is darkened and still, the curtains tightly drawn in the front windows of both the ground and first floors.

Two rings of the doorbell, more than a minute apart, bring no answer. Foyle bends down and peers through the letter slot, but he can see nothing: the lights are switched off. Mr Saxby is clearly not at home.

 _Or dead._ It's entirely possible that his body has been lying in the house since sometime after Milner and Sam made their return visit on Tuesday afternoon.

Foyle steps toward the kerb, looking at the windows of the surrounding houses. It is just long enough before the blackout that people will be starting to light their front rooms – _if_ they're at home. And indeed, it's too early for most people to have returned from their jobs, war work or otherwise.

A gap in the wall of houses catches Foyle's eye. He walks towards the foot of the street.

He recalls John Kieffer telling him about the city, apparently rather far from his home, where he'd studied engineering. The streets were set out on a strict Cartesian grid with houses built on the longer edges of each the rectangles that the system created. Running down the center of each of these units – 'blocks,' John had called them – was an alley broad enough to allow a fire engine to come through. It was a feature intended to promote safety and sanitation – householders brought their refuse to the alleys to be collected – but the alleys, he'd explained, had developed into gathering places for the people in the houses, as useful to the community as the streets themselves.

 _Something like that would be very useful now,_ Foyle thinks. And of all things, the gap is the entrance to a narrow alley – too narrow to be called a twitten, and with no cottages opening onto it – between the back gardens of the modest houses in Plynlimmon Road and the considerably larger ones in St Mary's Terrace. Venturing in, though, he sees that it gives access only to the latter; Plynlimmon Road is at a higher elevation, and to reach its back gardens from here would require scaling a nine-foot wall. _Possibly a task Sam might enjoy, if I asked for a volunteer,_ he thinks with some amusement, _but not something that's going to be done today._

Foyle returns the way he came. He'd seen a pub where the two streets diverge; they might know something in there. But a notice is tacked to the door:

 _We regret to announce that  
THE COMPASS PUBLIC HOUSE  
will be closed until farther notice  
owing to the death of the landlord  
ARTHUR GEORGE MALLINSON  
(3 January 1888 – 25 September 1942)  
of injuries sustained during enemy action  
on 24 September_

Back in Plynlimmon Road, Foyle walks again in the direction of number 14, nodding in response to a curious glance from Sam inside the car. Alpine Road comes to a dead end directly opposite the house; and on the corner there is a house with a light on inside and a window that looks directly into Plynlimmon Road.

'Yes? Can I help you?' The woman who answers the door is undoubtedly well past sixty, but not in the least stooped, with a sharp-eyed air.

'Good afternoon. My name is Foyle – I'm a policeman. I'm very sorry to have to disturb you.'

'A policeman, is it? Well, I suppose you'd better come through.'

In the sitting room she introduces her husband, a man either older than she or with whom time has caught up more quickly. Seated in an armchair, he struggles to his feet with the aid of a cane as Foyle enters the room.

Their name is Grove; they live here by themselves. Their daughters-in-law and grandchildren have been evacuated to Wales. Both of their sons are in the R.A.F.

'So's mine,' Foyle tells them, having accepted a seat on what Rosalind would have called a slipper chair and declined an offer of tea. 'And you, um, chose not to be evacuated?'

'Of course!' Mr Grove thunders. 'Lived here all our lives. If Hastings falls, we'll fall with it!'

'What brings you here today, Mr Foyle?' Mrs Grove asks.

'Well. You _may_ already be aware of this, but at some point on Tuesday morning there was a burglary at 14 Plynlimmon Road.'

'A _burglary?_ No, I most certainly did _not_ know that,' Mrs Grove replies. 'Did _you,_ Harold?'

'Certainly not. And in wartime! Shocking,' her husband adds. 'Walter Saxby's house, isn't that?'

'Yes,' Foyle answers. 'Mr Saxby discovered the incident when he returned to the house at about a quarter past twelve that day.'

'Why, yes, I recall seeing him going into his house a bit before lunch on Tuesday!' Mr Grove exclaims. 'What was taken?'

'I'm afraid I can't discuss that – just as a matter of routine, you understand. The problem is, the police haven't had any contact with Mr Saxby since later that afternoon. I've been trying to reach him by telephone since yesterday morning, but no one answers. I've just tried the doorbell with no success, and the curtains are drawn shut. I was wondering whether either of _you_ has seen him during the past 48 hours or so.'

'Dear _me,'_ says Mrs Grove. 'No, I really can't say that I have. Have you, Harold?'

'No, definitely not,' Mr Grove agrees.

Foyle pulls a card from his coat pocket and hands it to Mrs Grove.

'If either of you _does_ see him, of if you hear anything about him, would you let me know, please? Thank you,' he goes on as Mrs Grove nods assent. 'Mr Grove, you didn't happen to notice from which direction Mr Saxby approached the house on Tuesday, did you?'

'Why, from the North,' Mr Grove says.

'There's one other matter. I've _borrowed_ these and they need to be handled with some care,' Foyle cautions, removing the photographs from their envelope. 'There's a young woman who appears in each of these pictures.'

'She's not wearing a hat,' Mrs Grove observes in a disapproving voice.

'I've seen this girl,' Mr Grove says. 'She used to be a regular visitor at, well, in fact, at Saxby's place.'

'"Used to be",' Foyle notes. 'When was this, please, Mr Grove?'

'During the summer, I suppose – perhaps as far back as late spring. I don't get about much any longer, with this leg,' Mr Grove explains – _perhaps more for his wife's benefit than for mine,_ Foyle thinks – 'and the wireless does grow tiresome after a point, so I pass rather a good deal of time looking out of the window. At any rate, this girl used to call over there – not what you'd call _frequently,_ but often enough. Saxby would show her in and out. I couldn't tell you how long her visits might have _been,_ though. He's some sort of tutor. Maths, that's it. Struck me that she looked a _bit_ long in the tooth for _that_ sort of thing.'

'I see,' Foyle says. 'When was the last time you noticed her?'

'Oh, late in August – not much before the end of the month, I'd say,' Mr Grove replies. 'Looks as though she's put on a pound or two since then. Suits her.'

'I've seen this young woman as well, Mr Foyle,' Mrs Grove puts in, 'here in Alpine Road. I was going to the shops. She was approaching from the opposite direction – from Collier Road, walking towards Plynlimmon Road.'

'When was this?' Foyle asks.

'Late in the summer, possibly in August. No, I beg your pardon – it was the first of September. It _has_ to have been, because in fact I was _not_ going to the shops – I was going to the bank. I _always_ go to the bank on the first unless it's a Sunday. As well, if I'd been going to the shops I'd have been carrying my market basket, which I wasn't. _She_ was carrying an attaché case, however. A _woman_ carrying such an item – _there's_ something that one _never_ saw before this war began. And she wasn't wearing a hat _then,_ either.'

'The first of September,' Foyle notes. 'And you're fairly certain of that, Mrs Grove?'

'As certain as I _can_ be.'

'Roughly what time of day was this?'

'Oh, rather early – between eight-thirty and nine o'clock, I'd say.'

* * *

When Foyle returns to the car he finds it empty. Looking up, he sees that Sam has gone over the road and is inspecting – _for lack of a better word,_ Foyle thinks – a small saloon car, the sort with seating in the back but only two doors, dark blue in colour. It is one of more than a dozen cars that Foyle can see from where he stands, all idle since the end of the petrol ration.

'What are you doing, Sam?' Foyle asks when he reaches her. He at once regrets his irritated tone, which Sam as usual either doesn't notice or simply ignores.

'This is Mr Saxby's car, sir,' she explains. 'It's an Austin Seven, which probably isn't important. It's quite _dirty,_ though.'

'Might expect that,' Foyle points out, 'given that it's up on blocks and probably _has_ been for the past few months.'

'The other cars in this street are being kept fairly clean, and _they're_ all on blocks as well,' Sam points out.

 _True enough,_ Foyle thinks, looking about.

'He's left some things inside it,' Sam points out.

Indeed he has. A pair of driving gloves, not as sturdy-looking as Sam's MTC-issue gantlets, lie on the driver's seat. On the back seat sits what appears to be a rolled-up newspaper, but the dirty windows make it difficult to see much more than that.

'There wouldn't happen to be any cleaning supplies in the Wolseley's boot, would there, Sam?'

When Sam returns to the Austin she carries a rag wrapped around a bottle of glass cleaner in one hand and a torch in the other.

'Might I ask you to hold this, please, sir?' she asks, proffering the torch. 'It's starting to grow dark, and I thought that it might be helpful.'

Sam sets to work on the window to the right of the back seat, and in a few minutes it's clean enough that when Foyle shines the torch through it the beam clearly lights up what's there.

It is indeed a newspaper, folded in such a way as to make it difficult at first to see anything other than the lower half of the masthead. But by aiming the beam carefully he can make out what the title must be – _Les nouveaux temps_ – and a date: _Le 20ème août 1942._

Sam is startled when Mr Foyle abruptly snaps off the torch – looking a bit perturbed, it seems to her.

'Let's be on our way, Sam,' he says.


	15. Chapter 15

'Did you see anything... useful in Mr Saxby's car, sir?' Sam asks as she drives the Wolseley back to the police station.

'Possibly,' Foyle allows.

'The newspaper was from this year,' Sam points out, 'and I _think_ that it was French.'

'Mm. Published in Paris, at any rate.'

'What do you mean, sir?'

 _'Almost_ certain it was _Les nouveaux temps_ – which is a well-known collaborationist daily.'

'Collaborationist?'

'Pro-Nazi, in this instance.'

 _'Oh!_ Then how did it get to be _here?'_

'That's a good question.' Mr Foyle is silent for a moment. 'You think _both_ of them are spies, don't you, Sam?'

'Well... ' Sam begins. She feels, suddenly, as though she has been caught in the larder nibbling at the tea cakes.

'Which of them do you think is working for the Allies?'

'They _both_ might be, sir,' Sam replies slowly, after deciding that Mr Foyle might actually be asking for her opinion and not simply humouring her. _'Or_ they both might be _enemy_ spies – which _is_ rather an alarming thought. If only _one_ of them is, though... '

She trails off, frowning in puzzlement.

'One of the people I interviewed just now saw Miss Beaux – let's call her that – both entering and leaving Mr Saxby's house several times during the summer,' Mr Foyle tells her.

'Entering with a _key,_ do you mean, sir?'

'No, he was seen letting her in. _And_ it seems that she was seen walking in the direction of Mr Saxby's house – carrying an attaché case, I was told – two or three hours before Subaltern Lyle and Sergeant Orloff found her at the Wellington Road steps.'

'She didn't have so much as a _handbag_ with her when we saw her that day!'

'That newspaper couldn't possibly have got here through the post,' Mr Foyle goes on.

'No, of _course_ not, sir – someone had to _bring_ it here from France!'

'The date on it was the twentieth of August – twelve days before Miss Beaux's accident.' _Assuming that that's what it was,_ he thinks. Sergeant Orloff's theory has begun to look slightly less fanciful.

'Would it take _that_ long to travel between Paris and Hastings, sir? I suppose that it _might,'_ Sam goes on, answering her own question, 'if the traveler needed to hide from the authorities until it became safe to proceed.'

'Quite possibly – but from _which_ authorities?'

'From the Germans in France... or from His Majesty's Government, I suppose, if... ' Sam trails off, then bursts out, 'One of them might be a double agent, sir!'

'That's possible. So are a number of other things. There you are, Sam – that's our problem. Too many possibilities and not enough evidence to support _acting_ on a single one of them. Nothing _new_ about that, of course,' Mr Foyle adds.

* * *

'You really _ought_ to have come with us to lunch, Helen,' Sam tells her friend that evening.

'I don't know about _that,_ Sam!' Helen replies. Her Welsh accent, which waxes and wanes, is quite strong after ten days' leave in her native Monmouth. 'It's very _awkward_ for the _rest_ of us here, you know – you hobnobbing with all of those officers.'

This is undeniably true, and it occurs to Sam that Major Vandercook doesn't seem to have thought about that question.

 _And if Robin towers over Glenda,_ she thinks, _what are Helen and_ this _chap going to look like together?_

 _Still,_ _I_ did _tell him that I'd give Helen his address,_ and _I told Mother and Dad that I hoped that something really nice would happen to her. They're not in the same branch of the forces_ _– they're not even from the same country_ _– so perhaps it won't matter that she's other ranks._

'You have an admirer, though, and you'd have met him if you had come with us,' she tells Helen.

Helen looks doubtful and even a bit suspicious. Sam withdraws Major Vandercook's paper from her pocket and gives it to Helen, who reads it with a look of alarm.

'He wandered into the café where we went and came to our table to say hello, so we invited him to join us,' Sam explains. 'He asked me about you. He was standing opposite you during the parade and saw us talking afterwards.'

 _'Esgob annwyl!'_ Helen splutters.

'He really was _quite_ nice, Helen, and he wasn't at _all_ bad-looking,' Sam goes on. 'He wanted to know about all of us at lunch, and he was very interested in what women do for the war effort – and he was quite _horrified_ when Glenda told him about Sergeant O'Connor. He said that you looked like a very nice girl,' she adds. 'That's precisely how he put it. I don't suppose that it would hurt simply to _write_ to him.'

Helen seems to be on the point of replying when the telephone rings.

'Hardcastle residence – Chief Wren Telegraphist Jones speaking,' she announces into the receiver. 'Oh, yes, ma'am, ah, madam, she's here. Your mam,' she tells Sam and hands the receiver to her.

'Hello, Mother, it's Sam. Where are you calling from?'

'Lyminster – we did it!' says her mother in the exultant new voice that Sam has heard from her several times during the past few days.

'That's _very_ good, Mother – I'm glad that you've got home safely, and so quickly. I do hope that you haven't exhausted yourself, though.'

'Well, I _am_ rather tired, I suppose, but a bath and a good night's sleep will put that right.'

 _The war really_ has _changed her,_ Sam thinks.

'Mother, I really am _so_ glad that you and Dad came to see me – and I _do_ hope that you had a nice time here,' she says. The words sound inadequate to her.

'I can speak only for myself – your father will have something to say, I am sure, and of course he _does_ wish to talk to you – but I _did._ Your young man seems quite nice, as these things go, and I really _do_ hope that we will see you _both_ here at some point,' her mother tells her.

'Thank you, Mother – I'll tell Andrew that you said so,' Sam replies.

'Samantha, you called yourself by that horrid nickname just now,' her mother goes on, her voice now taking on a tone that Sam finds both more familiar and less welcome. 'I _do_ wish that you would refrain from doing so. Your father and I were _most_ pleased to discover that Flight Lieutenant Foyle uses your Christian name.'

'He does call me Sam almost _all_ of the time, Mother, actually. It was his idea to call me Samantha last night. He thought that you and Dad would be pleased if he did.'

 _And he told me afterwards what a beautiful name it is,_ Sam thinks of adding. No; she will keep that to herself, she decides.

'Did he _really,'_ her mother is saying. 'Well,' she goes on in a milder voice, 'that was very _considerate_ of him, I really must say. Samantha, your father is waiting to speak with you – I'll say good night.'

'Good night, then, Mother,' Sam replies, with the same mixture of tenderness and irritation and guilt that she so often feels when she thinks about this woman.

'Samantha, my dear,' she hears her father say.

'Hello, Dad. Thank you for coming to see me – and for bringing mother. It really _was_ a lovely surprise, and I do hope that you had a pleasant time.'

'I did indeed – we _both_ did. It was a very enjoyable change of scene, and we were very pleased to meet your gentleman friend.'

Sam is as surprised by the relief that she feels as she is by hearing her father refer Andrew in that way. She exhales suddenly – loudly enough, she fears, for her father to hear her – then draws a breath.

'Dad, did you like Andrew?' she asks, a bit tentatively.

'He seems sound enough, my dear, and it is _certainly_ clear that his affection for you runs just as deep as yours for him,' her father replies. 'I _would_ urge you to be very cautious – in more than one respect, let me say. It would be unwise to commit oneself too quickly in such a serious matter as this. I might add that you and Flight Lieutenant Foyle have spent rather _little_ time in each other's company, to judge from what you told us in September.'

'That's true. The war, after all -'

 _'Precisely,_ Samantha,' her father says. 'I will repeat to you what I told him yesterday evening – a wartime atmosphere is unlikely to foster reliable perceptions, of people or of anything else. That said, you may rest assured that your beau made a _very_ good _first_ impression. I overheard your mother repeat just now her invitation to you to bring him to Lyminster when that can be arranged. That invitation is mine as well.'

'Thank you, Dad. Andrew and I _will_ talk about that, I promise. Dad, There's something that I've been wanting to ask you,' Sam goes on, although in fact the question has only now occurred to her. 'There must have been _other_ livings available when you were looking for a parish – what made you choose Lyminster?'

'Well, after all, Samantha, it wasn't really a question of _choosing_ Lyminster.'

'No, of course not.'

'I _was_ hoping for a rural situation, however – _that's_ true, and I had a specific reason for that,' her father tells her. 'I thought that the difficulties that your mother was having in carrying a child to term – first in Cambridge and then in Brighton – must have been caused by... too much hurly-burly, I suppose. My idea was that she might have better luck in the countryside. Of course that turned out not to be true – not at first.'

'I see,' says Sam.

'As well, 1913 was a rather _peculiar_ year for those of us who were moving about within the Church. There _were_ other livings available, you're quite right about that, Samantha, but they were nearly all in the larger cities. I felt quite _blessed_ to be offered Lyminster – and, in time, with your arrival, it _did_ prove to be a blessed place for your mother and myself.'

'I see,' Sam says again. 'Thank you, Dad.'

'At that time, let me hasten to add – and this speaks to what I suspect lies _behind_ your question, Samantha – Lyminster was a rather different place to what it is now,' her father continues. 'The last war, combined with the influenza epidemic, took a _terrible_ toll on this village.'

'Of course.' Sam knows this all too well; there are nineteen names on the village's war memorial, which is inside St Stephen's, and twenty-two more on what people call 'the flu column,' on the village green. One couple in the village lost every one of their children in one cataclysm or the other and had left Lyminster afterwards, never to return. They were not the only ones.

'When your mother and I arrived here Lyminster was a popular place of retreat amongst artists – and some writers as well – who'd had their fill of London and wanted peace and quiet in which to work,' her father says. 'All of that changed after the war, and the people who replaced them – for lack of a better way of putting it – came from a different... _sector,_ metaphorically speaking. But _they_ needed the Church as much as their predecessors had – and it must be said that they were more willing to _own_ that. So we stayed in place.'

'I see,' Sam replies for a third time. _They needed the Church, not a particular churchman,_ she thinks, with a burst of resentment. _Perhaps Mother and Dad simply couldn't face moving to another new parish, though._ A clear picture comes to her of three small headstones in the churchyard at St Stephen's; her parents had already left three behind in two other places.

'Did you and Mother have a good journey today?' she asks, changing the subject.

'Yes, very pleasant, and really quite interesting as well. We got underway just a bit past noon, and we had a _most_ impressive and amiable travelling companion as far as Brighton – a young woman from Paris, I would guess two or three years your senior. She arrived in England as a refugee after the fall of France and now works for an agency in London that helps people like herself.'

'Good for her!'

'Indeed. A field worker, she called herself. She was very charming, seemed quite intelligent and was in _remarkably_ good spirits for someone who's had the sort of experience that she must surely have had. She insisted on helping us with our suitcases, in both Hastings and Brighton, even though she had one of her own. _I_ finally insisted on returning the favour, as her coach was leaving Brighton before ours.'

'That was awfully kind of _both_ of you, Dad.'

'She said that she wasn't sure when she would return to Hastings,' her father goes on, 'but your mother and I both thought that she would be a most salutary addition to your circle. We gave her your name and telephone number.'

'Oh – well, thank you, Dad, that's very thoughtful of you. What was _her_ name?'

There is a pencil lying on the hall table, and Sam starts searching for a scrap of paper on which to write down the information, but she stops – stops _everything_ – when she hears her father's reply.

'Josephine Bow,' he says.

* * *

 **Author's note:**  
With the exception of the war memorial, my description of Lyminster is imaginary.


	16. Chapter 16

'B-o-w, sir!'

'Eyes on the road, please, Sam.'

'Sorry, sir. I was starting to write it down, and I asked if it was B-e-a-u-x – because he'd said that she was French, you see.'

'Mm.'

'And he said no, B-o-w, and that she had explained that her father's father was English.'

Sam is driving Mr Foyle from Steep Lane directly to the offices of the _Observer_ this morning, so that he can return Anne's photos as early as possible and speak with Mr Greatorex.

'I _didn't_ ask what she looked like,' she goes on.

'Your father would've wondered why you wanted to know,' Mr Foyle observes.

'Exactly, sir. I can _write_ and ask him, though, if you'd like. I could do that this evening, actually, since... '

 _Since Andrew is leading another night exercise and won't be home until so late that I won't see him until the morning,_ Sam thinks, and wonders why she can't say this aloud _._

'And your parents didn't leave until after twelve o'clock?'

' _Just_ after, my father said.'

'Was this the St Leonards coach station?'

I didn't ask him _that,_ either,' Sam admits, 'but it seems likely. It's the closest to the Royal Victoria.'

'Yes.'

'There's one _other_ thing, sir. I _did_ ask whether she was returning to London.'

'And?'

'He didn't actually know _where_ she was going, but he _had_ mentioned that in Brighton he carried her suitcase for her to her coach. He said that it was bound for Alton.'

'Alton,' Mr Foyle repeats. 'That's in Hampshire.'

'It _is,_ sir, and in decent weather you can walk from Alton to Leavenham in twenty minutes, or perhaps a _bit_ longer if you were carrying something large or heavy – such as a suitcase. I've been to Alton any number of times when I've gone to visit my Uncle Aubrey.'

'Really,' Mr Foyle says. 'Well, that's, um, interesting to know, Sam.'

* * *

'You're saying that the publication of these photographs poses no threat to public safety, then, Mr Foyle?' Mr Greatorex asks.

'Were you thinking of printing _all_ of them?' Foyle replies.

'If only I had the _space,_ Mr Foyle! No, 'fraid it'll be only _one_ out of this sequence – this one, most likely,' Greatorex goes on, pointing to the shot of the woman handing her flowers to Corporal Farnetti. 'The human-interest angle! Icing on the cake is what the public usually wants from _us,_ but these days they're missing the cake itself. We're down to six pages in each issue – as I'm sure you've noticed.'

'Hm, yes. D'you think that I could obtain copies of these two?' Foyle goes on, indicating the one singled out for publication and its predecessor, in which the woman looks over her shoulder. 'The Police Department would cover the expense.'

'But would the Police _replace_ the paper we'd be using in order to do that for you?'

'Yes – we probably could.'

'I suppose we could manage in _that_ case. Won't be before this afternoon, though.'

'That'll be perfectly fine. Thank you.'

* * *

'You _must_ come and see us, Sam!' Anne effuses. It is her last day here; she has put her tools into a market basket that sits atop her desk.

'Oh, of _course_ I shall! How _lovely_ – a Christmas baby!' Sam exclaims.

Anne's face reddens; she glances towards the floor.

'It doesn't matter at _all,_ Anne,' Sam tells her quietly.

'We didn't know. We were going to be married that day anyway. You _do_ believe that, don't you?'

'It wouldn't matter if you _had_ known.' _It could happen to anyone,_ Sam thinks of saying, but doesn't.

 _Couldn't it? Could it?_

* * *

'Sam, I think on consideration that you ought to write that letter, um, sooner rather than later,' Foyle says. 'This afternoon if possible.' _Might as well keep your evening free,_ he is about to continue, but stops himself – _for absolutely no reason other than force of habit,_ he knows. 'As well as a description, please ask your parents if, um, the woman they met told them the name of the organisation she said she works for,' he adds.

'Happy to, sir, but I haven't brought any letter paper with me today,' Sam replies, as she brings the Wolseley to a halt in front of the police station.

* * *

'Sergeant, Sam needs to write a letter on police business,' Mr Foyle tells Brookie. 'Let her have a sheet of Department stationery – just one, you'll need to keep it brief, Sam – and an envelope, would you?'

'Right you are, sir,' Brookie replies, as though this were the most routine request imaginable.

'And she'll need a place to work,' Mr Foyle goes on. 'Your desk free for half an hour or so?'

'I _could_ sit in the constables' room,' Sam begins, when Brookie appears less happy about this.

'No,' the two men say in unison, continuing with 'Sam' and 'Miss Stewart,' respectively.

'You sit 'ere, Miss Stewart, that'll do,' Brookie says, indicating his writing desk.

''Scuse me,' says an unfamiliar voice. 'Lookin' for the man in charge.'

The newcomer appears suspiciously well fed and is a sharp dresser of a sort that isn't often seen these days: lounge suit – single-breasted to be sure, but of a thicker, brighter blue flannel than one has got used to seeing – white and blue striped shirt, yellow necktie and, in his hand, a very new-looking black bowler with a yellow band.

''Ere's Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle,' Brookie tells him.

 _'Mister_ Foyle. _Good_ morning.'

Sam quietly moves behind the desk, sits down and begins work.

'Good morning,' Mr Foyle replies. 'What can I do for you, Mr... '

'The name's Jack Bentley,' the new arrival announces, 'and you've asked only _half_ the question. The other half is, what can _I_ do for _you,_ Mr Foyle? I _happen_ to have some information about a particular culinary establishment in your jurisdiction that you might find useful and that I'm prepared to share – under certain _conditions.'_

' _Have_ you. Well... let's discuss the matter, shall we?'

* * *

 **HASTINGS POLICE**  
 _Headquarters:_ Bohemia Road, near Magdalen Road  
 _Telephone:_ Summerfields 32 • _Cables:_ HASTPOL

 _13 November 1942_

 _Dear Mother and Dad,_

 _Please do not be alarmed by this letter; there is_ _absolutely __nothing __wrong_ _. For reasons that I shall explain, I felt that I ought to relate a particular part of my conversation with Dad last night to Mr Foyle, and he has asked me to ask you whether you can provide a description of Miss Bow, your traveling companion between Hastings and Brighton – what she looked like, what she wore, her speech, etc. As well, Mr Foyle would like to know the name of the organisation for which she works. Did she mention it?_

 _Miss Bow_ _may_ _be an individual whose safety and recent movements are of concern to the police, and who was_ _definitely_ _seen in Hastings yesterday morning before you embarked. As far as I know, she is_ _not_ _suspected of having committed a crime of any sort._

 _Mr Foyle also asked me which coach stop you departed from. I told him that it was probably St Leonards but I suppose that it would be best to be certain of this._

 _I know that both Mr Foyle and D/Sgt Milner will be_ _very_ _grateful for any help that you can provide. You can reply to me here at the station or at Mrs Hardcastle's, as you prefer. I will write to you again soon – a proper letter next time!_

 _As always, your daughter,_

 _Samantha Stewart_

* * *

'I'm not sure that I've ever seen a business letter with this much underscoring,' Milner says. Mr Foyle is still interviewing Mr Bentley when Sam finishes writing her letter, so she has given it to Milner to read over. 'And as a rule, Sam, you'd want to ask them to direct their reply to Mr Foyle. But on the whole this looks perfectly fine to me.'

'Thank you – I didn't think of that, though,' Sam replies, crestfallen. _I'm not on the force,_ she reminds herself.

'No harm done. I doubt he'll mind very much – and you'll know for next time.'

* * *

'Tell you what, Miss Stewart – fill in your name right 'ere,' Brookie suggests, pointing to the space above the return address on the envelope's flap. 'It'll discombobulate 'em less if they see that.'

Sam writes _S. Stewart_ in the blank space.

Mr Foyle and Mr Bentley emerge from the interview room, the former with what Sam thinks is a rather blank face, the latter looking pleased with himself. Sergeant Brooke watches them curiously.

'You know how to contact us, then, Mr Bentley?' Foyle asks.

''Deed I do,' the visitor replies, and takes his leave.

 _'Some_ progress,' Mr Foyle tells Brookie after Mr Bentley is gone, 'is better than none at all, I suppose.'

* * *

When Foyle looks up from his desk Sam is studying a painting of Rosalind's, a South Downs landscape that has hung for years on the wall of his office.

'Wwelll, Sam – no longer _strictly_ true that she's not a suspect,' he notes. 'At the very least, we need to question her in connection with the Plynlimmon Road burglary.'

'I understand that, sir,' says Sam, 'but I thought that if I didn't write _something,_ my parents might simply assume that she _is_ a criminal, and that _would_ worry them. Not for themselves, you understand, but that _I_ was so close to... something like that.'

'A kindly lie, then. Yes – I see.'

'That's _part_ of it, sir. They told me this week that they no longer have any objections to my secondment here, you see, but... ' She trails off.

'But you're not entirely convinced of that.'

'No, sir, I suppose that I'm _not_ – quite.'

A faint look of concern settles on Mr Foyle's face.

'You don't think they'd, um, prevail on you to go _home,_ Sam, do you?'

'They _can't_ any longer, sir,' Sam reminds him. 'When my father came here to fetch me in 1940 I _wasn't_ yet twenty-one and my family were my _only..._ source of support. I'm twenty- _three_ now, and I'm paid a Government salary. As well, I'd be subject to the call-up now if I were to leave the M.T.C.,' she goes on. 'That's _why_ I was allowed to join the M.T.C. to begin with – to keep control over the situation. That's how my Uncle Aubrey put it.'

Mr Foyle nods.

'In any event,' he says, handing her the letter, 'this will do perfectly well.'

'I ought to have asked them to write to _you,_ sir.'

'Don't worry about that, Sam – just let me know what they tell you, will you?'

'Of course, sir.'

There is a silence, broken by the sound of both of them talking at once.

'Sir- '  
'Sam- '

'I'm sorry, sir! Please go ahead.'

'No, you first, Sam.'

Sam takes a deep breath _as though to steel herself,_ Foyle thinks, but when she begins to speak she does so as though she were simply offering some useful information.

'My sisters and brothers were called Fiona Emma, Nicholas Roy Desmond, Catherine Lindsay, Philip Aubrey, George Duncan and Nathanael Duff Timothy. Fiona was born in Cambridge – my father was still at Westcott House then. Nicholas and Catherine were both born while he was a curate in Brighton. The others were born in Lyminster. Philip and George were twins. Philip lived longer than any of the others, a bit more than three months. Nathanael was the last one before me.'

'I'm very sorry, Sam,' Foyle replies. 'I can only _try_ to imagine what it must have been like to have _had_ that knowledge as a child.'

'Thank you, sir,' says Sam, with what looks like a tiny shrug of her shoulders. 'It was just... part of the landscape, I suppose. My parents never spoke of them very much, or at least not in my hearing. I do think, though, that it _explains_ a bit about why they haven't wanted me to do anything _conspicuous_ – I _think_ that that's the word. They've _always_ been certain that one dreadful thing or another will happen to me if I should... put myself forward in any way.'

Foyle nods, unsure of how best to respond to all of this.

'What were _you_ about to say, sir?' Sam continues.

'Only that Andrew told me recently about your, um, family history, and that I was very sorry to hear it and can certainly understand why you've never mentioned it until now.'

'It never seemed... _important,_ really, sir.'

* * *

THE FOLLOWING MORNING

Sam emerges from the greengrocer's carrying potatoes, beets and, to her obvious delight, a small onion.

'It's the very last one he had,' she announces gleefully.

'Best to keep that under wraps, Sam,' Andrew warns her merrily. 'Dad'll have one more larceny case on his hands otherwise. Did Anne get any good pictures of... that interesting acquaintance of ours?' he goes on as he and Sam join the queue at the fruit monger's.

'Yes – _several,_ actually. I _do_ need to tell you about that,' Sam tells him, lowering her voice.

There is a faint shimmer of anxiety about Sam this morning, it seems to Andrew – to do with the weather, he had thought at first. The air is chilly, and the clouds look newly threatening; they have both brought umbrellas with them. Now, looking at Sam more carefully, he sees that her face has grown somber: her eyes do not sparkle and her mouth is set.

'Not here, though,' he says.

'No, not here.'

 _All these urgently needed conversations that we can't have where anyone will hear us,_ Andrew thinks.

'If we _do_ go to the sea shore we can talk about it there. We'll have the promenade to ourselves, most likely,' Sam goes on, a bit more cheerfully.

Andrew smiles wryly.

'I was too optimistic on Thursday, I'm afraid. We could go home after you've finished your rounds, though, if you'd like,' he adds, speaking more quietly himself now.

'Your father isn't _really_ going to go fishing on a day like this, Andrew – _is_ he?'

'Never underestimate Dad's devotion to catching trout! But you're right – he _might_ very well decide to stay home today. No privacy there, I'm afraid.'

'No – and your father doesn't know that I tell you about these things,' Sam notes.

'Or if he _does,_ he hasn't let on,' Andrew observes, and they both laugh at this.

The fruit monger turns out to have only apples and a few pears. Sam makes quick work of the bakery as well, there being 'nothing to _choose_ from, of course, only the horrid National Loaf,' she complains to Andrew.

 _'Hush,_ Sam. Don't you know it's unpatriotic – or _worse_ – to speak of it that way? Where to next?' he asks.

'The butcher, and then the grocer – best to save that one for last. It'll be the heaviest part of the load.'

'Your father didn't ask me about my... churchgoing habits – or lack thereof,' Andrew observes when they have settled into the butcher's queue.

'I was wondering if you'd noticed that! My parents telephoned me on Thursday evening and he didn't ask then either. It isn't his way, really. He's been the vicar of Lyminster for nearly thirty years now, and it's been... an _awfully_ long time, really, since anyone _new_ arrived there, so I think that he's got out of the habit of asking such questions. Of course, Andrew, if we _do_ ever go to Lyminster, and if we're there on a Sunday... '

'Of course we'll go to Lyminster – I _want_ to, Sam – and of _course_ I'll go to church with you! I _do_ know how to behave in church, it _may_ surprise you to know. Mum made sure of that.'

When Sam returns from the butcher's shop she looks slightly perplexed.

'Other than bacon, he's got almost nothing but offal,' she explains. 'I did get a good large piece of oxtail – we can make soup from that – but the only other thing was _beef_ liver. I don't know how to cook that – is it the same as calf's liver? Perhaps one of the other girls will know.'

The queue at the grocer's is the longest yet.

'What would you like as a Christmas gift?' Andrew asks as they wait.

'A dictionary.' Sam does not even hesitate before replying.

'That's not very _romantic,_ Sam!'

'But it's something I urgently _need._ People are always using words that I've never heard before.' _Your father mostly,_ she adds silently, _and Milner sometimes._

'You can't look up a word in the dictionary unless you know how it's spelled,' Andrew points out reasonably.

'Well... yes, all right.' She's had that very experience, it's true. 'But I _read_ such words as well, in the newspapers and such – and as well, I wonder if I don't _use_ the wrong word sometimes.'

'You _always_ say exactly the right thing, Sam.'

 _'Do_ stop. What I _mean_ is, use a word as though it meant _one_ thing when it actually means something _else.'_

'What sort of a word?' he asks, seeing that she is blushing a bit.

'Carnality,' she says, very quietly. 'What my mother told me that she and my father don't want... me to do.'

'Ah. No, I think that _is_ the word, Sam.'

He touches her cheek with the tips of his fingers and she puts her own hand over his, holding it there, with a little smile.

* * *

When they reach the grocer's door Sam goes in by herself; they'd done the same thing at the other shops. It saves space, she'd explained.

Andrew looks about the street as he waits. He's by no means the only man in the queues. Most of them seem to be alone – widowers like his father, or bachelors, shifting for themselves – but there are a few, some in uniform, doing just what he's doing now, waiting outside as their... _as their_ wives _are waited on by the shopkeepers,_ he thinks. He turns toward the shop window and watches Sam, who has reached the counter and looks vexed and pleased by turns as she speaks with the grocer.

The picture suddenly grows blurry. It has begun to rain, but as he opens his umbrella Andrew realises with a start that his eyes have filled as well.

Sam is laden with the grocer's wares: jam, biscuits, household milk, margarine; tea, pieces of chocolate, a wedge of cheese; packets of sugar, lentils and dried currants; a tin of dried eggs.

'Andrew, what's wrong?' Sam asks as soon as she sees him.

'Nothing at all, Sam – I'm fine,' Andrew replies, too quickly.

'Your eyes are red,' Sam points out.

'Are they?'

'Just a bit.'

'I'm fine, Sam, really – I am.'

'Well... all right, then,' she says, though she is not sure that she ought to feel convinced. 'What would _you_ like for Christmas, Andrew?'


	17. Chapter 17

'I'll need to put these things away,' Sam says, standing just inside Mrs Hardcastle's door, 'and then I ought to put on something nicer than this. I'll be as quick as I can.' She feels badly for Andrew, standing in the drizzle, but Mrs Hardcastle's rules...

 _Mrs Hardcastle is in Cornwall,_ she reminds herself.

'Come through,' she says quietly. 'Just wait here in the hall, and be as quiet as you can.'

'Thank you, Sam. I'll be as quiet as I _tried_ to be last time,' Andrew promises in a whisper, and watches Sam blushing and trying not to laugh.

'Oh, do go sit in the parlour Andrew – _no one_ minds,' Felicity says from the stairs. 'Sorry – _didn't_ mean to startle anyone.' She is dressed to go out and moves towards the front door.

'Thank you – that's very kind of you,' Andrew replies.

'Yes, Felicity, thank you,' Sam echoes. 'Where's Helen, though?' she goes on cautiously.

'Up in her room,' Felicity explains. 'Said she had a letter to write.'

* * *

'If we're not going to the promenade, where _shall_ we go?' Sam asks. She seems more unreservedly cheerful now, though Andrew wonders if she isn't being determinedly so. But she has undone the loose plait that she'd been wearing and instead done something with a barrette and put on a blouse the colour of the inside of a conch shell, with a ruffled collar.

'Leave your umbrella, Sam – mine will do for both of us,' he tells her. 'What would you say to the museum?'

'Oh, yes, if you like. I've never been there.'

 _'Sam!_ You've lived in Hastings for _three whole years_ and haven't been to see the Hastings Museum?'

'Whenever I've travelled with my father we've _always_ done _two_ things – toured the oldest churches he can find, and visited the museum if there is one,' Sam explains. 'But I'd _quite_ like to see the Hastings Museum with _you.'_

As they walk – and it is quite heavenly ( _yes, that_ is _the right word,_ Sam decides) to walk this close to Andrew, even if a few people _do_ give them a second look as they pass – Sam quietly tells Andrew about the events of Thursday afternoon and evening.

'And yesterday morning I thought I'd better tell your father about it,' she goes on, 'and I offered to write to my parents to ask them for a physical description of her, and your father said that it _would_ be helpful, so I did.'

'Sam, that's _marvelous!_ Do you realise what that means?'

'Well... no. Is it important? I really hadn't thought about it. What _does_ it mean?'

'Dad's got you _directly_ involved in an investigation! Not in some... clandestine way – I know he's done _that_ before. I wish he _wouldn't,_ if you want to know the truth. But this time out he's simply had you ask people for information relevant to a case. Sam,' Andrew goes on, 'I don't believe for a _moment_ that you weren't – _aren't_ – absolutely _thrilled_ about that. What's troubling you, my warrior angel?'

Sam smiles at this in spite of herself.

'If that _was_ her on the coach,' she begins, 'and if she _was_ travelling to Leavenham, then I hope that she _did_ steal Mr Saxby's license and passport.'

'Why? If she _did,_ then it must mean that one of them's a double agent. This isn't some John Buchan novel we're talking about, Sam – that'd be a _very_ serious thing.'

'I know that. But it would mean, or it _might_ mean, that _that_ was her _only_ assignment. What I had been thinking – for months, actually, ever since September – was that if she _is_ with the Special Operations Executive, they might have sent her here to... keep an eye on you.'

 _'Highly_ unlikely, I'd say – I _don't_ think that I'm all _that_ valuable to them, Sam!'

'But they _might_ think that you're some sort of... do you see, Andrew? I _do_ need a dictionary, or _something_ of that sort! A possible problem for them – _that's_ what I mean.'

'A liability – why?'

'Because your _father_ has been troublesome to them more than once, and they know that _you're_ his son, and because _you_ know that they _don't_ always wait for people to volunteer. _You_ were _coerced._ Something happened at the Royal Victoria on Tuesday that I didn't tell you about,' Sam goes on. 'When the alert began that evening a bit of my mother's old self came back, I'm afraid. Getting her down all of those stairs to the shelter _was_ a bit of rough going! But there was a WAAF there who asked my mother if she needed help.'

'I'd expect nothing less!' Andrew exclaims. 'The Air Ministry has _no_ use for dolts or clods, I'd have you know.'

'The thing is, I heard her speaking to my mother – she had rather a _deep_ voice for a woman – and then I saw her out of the corner of my eye. She was... of a certain age, I suppose one might say, and she had brown hair cut very short. And I thought at first that it was Miss Pierce! Of course it couldn't _possibly_ have been her – she _isn't_ in the WAAF, I _know_ that.'

'But Sam, Miss Pierce _is_ in the WAAF. She was in uniform when she and Wintringham came to Debden to, um, to talk to me in January, and the entire time that I was in Leavenham.'

'She was _never_ in uniform when _I_ saw her. That was early last year, and the year before that,' Sam recalls.

'She might have joined up later, I suppose. But she's in the WAAF, all right. She's a wing officer – that's like being a wing commander in the R.A.F. Perhaps it _was_ Miss Pierce and she saw _you_ before she saw your mother and that was her way of saying hello.'

'She'd have to have an _awfully_ good memory to remember _me!_ I've barely ever met her!'

'Someone in her game would _need_ a good memory, wouldn't they?'

'I suppose that's true. How did she get to be a wing officer if she joined up not even _two_ years ago?' Sam goes on.

'Good question.'

There is a little silence.

'Anything _else_ the matter, Sam?' Andrew asks at last.

Sam comes to a halt, and Andrew with her.

'Are you going to leave Training Command?' she asks him in turn.

'It isn't a question of _leaving,_ Sam,' he begins uneasily.

'Are you going to... be reassigned, then?'

'There's really no keeping anything from you, _is_ there? I don't know.'

'Are you going to be transferred?'

'I don't know that either. Probably not. Well... I don't _know,_ that's all. If I'm _not_ transferred, I _will_ be reassigned – my squadron's being's shut down. You _never_ heard that from me or anybody else, by the way. And I could be transferred no matter _what_ happens.'

'Could you be sent overseas?'

'Yes.' He sounds a bit miserable saying all of this, but when he adds, 'I actually feel rather better for having told you all that – thank you, Sam,' he means it. 'You mustn't repeat a _word_ of it, though,' he continues.

'I won't.' Sam herself looks less glum now, though still very serious, Andrew sees. 'Andrew,' she goes on, 'do you remember that when I agreed to start walking out with you again I made you promise that you would never lie to me?'

'And I haven't! Sam, I've just told you absolutely _everything_ I know about -'

'Oh, I know, darling, I _know_ that you've told me the truth.' This time it is Sam who touches Andrew's cheek, and he who holds her hand in place. 'I need another promise from you.'

'Yes?' he asks warily.

'If you do start flying again and things... reach the state that they did when you were on night duty last year – or if you keep on as an instructor and start to really _hate_ it again – if life starts to look really _terrible,_ I mean – you _can't_ simply stand about and... _mope._ You've got to _tell me_ about these sorts of thing, Andrew. It _isn't_ a burden,' she continues before he can protest, 'and you might be absolutely _astounded_ by how much I understand.'

'You're not responsible for me, Sam,' Andrew begins, having shifted his free hand from her own hand to her shoulder, and then to her waist.

 _'Yes!_ I _am!_ I am!' Sam exclaims. 'I _want_ to be,' she adds more quietly.

For a moment they stand without speaking or moving, nearly close enough to kiss, looking into each others' eyes.

'Sam... '

An alarm echoes in the back of Andrew's mind, sounding like an air raid siren, or a scramble bell, or perhaps like his father's voice.

 _If I ask her now she'll only think I was being impulsive,_ he thinks. _It hasn't been long enough._ _Dad's right._

'My God, Sam,' he whispers finally. 'Do you have even the _slightest_ idea of what an extraordinary girl you are? All right. I promise to try.'

He slides his arm about her waist and draws her closer still.

* * *

'You never told me that your grandfather received a knighthood,' Sam remarks.

'Well, he didn't, in fact. My _great_ -grandfather did, as it happens – he's the one who really built up the press after _his_ father and uncle started it,' Andrew explains, sounding slightly abashed, 'but my grandfather was... um, he was created a baronet.'

'And you most _certainly_ never told me _that!'_

'It was actually rather sad. It wasn't until the year after Mum died, and by that time he was really struggling to keep the company going. But... do people _talk_ about that sort of thing, really? It might not have sat well at Hastings Grammar – and it _surely_ wouldn't have done with the crowd I ran with at Oxford! _I_ don't need to worry about it, of course, but it _will_ be Uncle Charles' problem – fairly soon, I'm afraid – and then Alan's after that.'

'Perhaps they won't mind so much.'

'On the contrary, they're quite likely to,' Andrew announces solemnly. 'They're _very_ decent chaps, Sam, and baronets are a despicable class of men – or they have that reputation, at least.'

'What on _earth_ do you mean?'

'In Victorian novels they're always doing dreadful things to virtuous young women, aren't they?'

'Your family's _much_ more interesting than mine, Andrew,' Sam remarks when she has finished laughing at this.

'I beg to differ. Yours produced _you,_ after all. That's really _very_ interesting all by itself. Just one man's opinion, of course.'

As they approach the museum Andrew realises that for all his good-natured chiding of Sam he himself hasn't been there since before the war began, and only once or twice since he went up to Oxford. Museums in London, he knows, have sent their collections to safety in the countryside, and it occurs to him now that the Hastings Museum might have followed suit. Still, the place seems to be open for visitors and from the foyer he and Sam can hear people talking in the central court.

'I wonder whether things have been changed about at all,' he says.

'Perhaps we can ask over there,' Sam replies, pointing out a desk with a sign on the front that reads _Information for Visitors._ A woman with a pleasant, bland face – a young matron, Sam's mother might say – is seated behind it.

'Good morning,' Andrew begins. 'I'd like to get some information, if it's possible, about an exhibition that took place here in the early '30s – East Sussex artists.'

'That's a bit before my time, I'm afraid, though I have _heard_ about it,' the woman replies. _'This_ gentleman, now,' she goes on, turning to a passerby, _'he_ might be able to help you. Mr Brown? Mr Brown?'

 _'Yes,_ Mrs Hallowell, what _is_ it?' He looks displeased at having been hailed in this way; he looks as though he might be displeased by anything at all.

'Good morning – I'm very sorry to trouble you, Mr Brown,' Andrew begins again. 'There was an exhibition of work by East Sussex artists – all painters and watercolourists, as I remember it – that was mounted here at then end of 1931.'

'Indeed there was,' he says. 'Stayed on view into the new year. You'd have been still a boy then.'

'I was thirteen,' Andrew allows. Sam hears his voice tightening a bit and takes a step closer to him. 'I was wondering what became of the works that were on display then.'

'Most of them became part of the Museum's collection.'

'Perhaps I ought to explain – my mother was one of the artists. Rosalind Howard.'

Mr Brown's expression softens slightly.

'Yes,' he says thoughtfully, 'I _do_ remember that. Very sad, that was. My condolences, Flight Lieutenant.'

'Thank you.'

'A substantial part of our collection has been removed to a place of safety,' Mr Brown goes on after a second or two. 'I'm not permitted to say where, and I _wasn't_ involved in decisions about what would go and what would stay – _that_ was a job for the big boss, _not_ the assistant curator, which I am – and if my memory were good enough that I could tell you off the top of my head what's still here... well, I suppose I might _be_ the big boss. But we keep good records, I can assure you of _that_ much, and it shouldn't be _too_ difficult to locate particular items. I'll tell you what, Flight Lieutenant Howard, why don't we visit my office, and we'll see if we can track down your mother's work.'

'Thank you very much indeed! My name is Foyle, though,' Andrew tells him. 'My mother used her maiden name professionally.'

'Oh, _really?_ How very interesting,' Mr Brown remarks, sounding as though he has never before heard of such a thing. He turns to Sam. 'Would you care to come with us, Mrs Foyle?'

Sam stands completely still for an instant, rooted to the stone floor as the men walk toward the building's rear section. Then she catches them up in a few quick strides.

 _FINIS_


End file.
